Gentle Rogue
by Melissa Alexander
Summary: Jonsa Pirate AU: The Bastard Rogue and The Lady In Waiting - Hatching a plan to escape the confines of a loveless marriage to King Joffrey, Sansa boards a ship for Essos,but finds herself in peril when her ship is commandeered by pirates,and she exchanges one prison for another.*Full synopsis in the first chapter.*Jonsa fanfic Rated M for language and eventual sexual situations.
1. Chapter 1

**Gentle Rogue**

 _ **The Bastard Rogue**_

 _A stain upon the good Stark name, Jon had fled his family home at sixteen -following in the footsteps of his dearly departed mother before him, and taking to the seas upon a merchant ship to make his own way in the world. When rumors of the death of his beloved Uncle Ned reach him, Jon turns his ship towards Westeros, finding himself in hostile waters, and face to face with the past he'd been running from._

 _ **The Lady in Waiting**_

 _Promised years ago to wed Joffrey Baratheon, the Duke of Kings Landing, Sansa Stark should have been the happiest woman in Westeros when she came of age. It was everything she'd dreamed of as a child -a fairytale prince to sweep her off of her feet. Yet everything was not as it seemed, and Joffrey was anything but chivalrous. The death of her father brought Sansa's world crashing down around her, pushing her family farther in financial ruin, and at the mercy of the wealthy Lannisters -the powerful family of the King's mother. Hatching a plan to escape the confines of a loveless marriage, Sansa boards a ship for Essos, but finds herself in peril when her ship is commandeered by pirates, and she exchanges one prison for another._

* * *

 **Prologue**

 _ **Winterfell Manor, Westeros 1796**_

Ned slumped against the wall, burying his face in his hands. Every time Lyanna screamed, it was agony -like a blade twisting deep in his gut. His little sister -always so willful and stubborn, she had brought this on herself, but he'd shelter her from it if it was within his power to do so.

"Where is the blasted doctor!" Robert screeched, cupping his hands over his ears to block out Lyanna's wails of pain. "I could have ran faster than this. I'll whip that damn stable boy bloody!"

"You'll do no such thing," Catelyn emerged from around the corner of the corridor, her arms filled with fresh white linens, balanced on the shelf of her swollen pregnant belly. "Your Grace," she added, respectfully dipping her head in a quick bow.

The mighty Robert Baratheon, Duke of Storms End, Lord of the Storm Lands and heir apparent to the Westerosi throne let no slight go ignored -except that which came from the mouth of Ned's new bride, Catelyn Tully of River Run. _Or his sister Lyanna, of course._

As if on cue, a bloodcurdling scream erupted from the other side of the door, reverberating through the empty hallways -for anyone that was clever had remained out of sight _and_ out of the way. Ned rushed to open the door for Catelyn, immediately regretting his decision of chivalry as the smell of blood, thick and heavy, invaded his nostrils, churning his stomach with the dread he already felt. Quickly he pulled it shut, terrified of what lay on the other side.

"Is it supposed to be like this?" Robert looked to him, desperate for some kind of reassurance.

Ned had none to offer, and so he remained silent, resuming his slumped position against the wall and bracing himself for the next bout of screams. It could have been mere minutes or painstaking hours -he could no longer differentiate between the two, when the door creaked open again and Nan slid out into the hall.

"The babe is turned my Lord," she shook her head, her somber eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Feet first. I've done all I can, but I cannot save the babe and-"

"The hell with the bastard, let it die then!" Robert interjected, appalled that it should even be a topic of discussion.

"Robert please," Ned held his hand up to silence his oldest and dearest friend. It was so easy to forget formalities sometimes, but it was the least of his worries, as he nodded for her to continue.

Nan shook her head slowly, eyes downcast. "You misunderstand, Your Grace. She's bleeding out and I cannot stop it, 'tis beyond my skills." Her hands fiddled with the folds of her dress, mottled with blood, "There is a way I can save the babe and she wishes me to do so ..." She paused with a resigned sigh. "She wants to see you. _Both_ of you."

"'Tis not proper-"

"Oh shut up Ned," Robert eagerly shoved past them. "Propriety be damned."

Ned followed suit with no urgency in his step, trying to make sense of Nan's words. He knew very well what they meant, but just couldn't seem to wrap his brain around them. This _couldn't_ be goodbye - _not when they had lost so much already._

He wasn't exactly sure what he expected to see when he entered the room from which the screams had poured forth from for hours, but the sight of his little sister, pale white against the blood soaked bedding, nearly brought him to his knees. Ned grabbed for the bedpost, not sure he could trust his legs to hold him up. The smell of blood was suffocating -he was no simpering green boy, seeing his fair share of both death and blood, but not like this ...

"Brother," Lyanna stretched her arms out to him, her smile weak, but genuine -a show of courage amidst her suffering.

Letting gravity take him, Ned dropped to his knees by the bedside, folding his little sisters dainty hands within his own. They were cold, despite the stuffiness of the room, but steady -unlike his own. Perhaps her bravery was not a farce, after all.

"The doctor ...he's-" Ned stumbled over his words, wanting to offer comfort and failing miserably. "You've just got to hold out awhile longer."

"Shhh, I am running out of time dear brother, and I have much to say," Lyanna squeezed his hands, her grip surprisingly strong, before removing one of them, and reaching for Robert on the opposite side of the bed. "Forgive me, Robert," she turned her tear streaked face towards him. "It was never my intention to hurt you. I wish I could have been the queen you deserve, but you know it is not who I am."

"Sweetling, who has done this to you?" Robert asked, pushing the sweat soaked hair back from her brow and stroking her cheek intimately.

"That doesn't matter," Lyanna shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut as more tears sprung forth from them. "He is dead and gone. What is done is done."

Robert opened his mouth to protest as another contraction tore through Lyanna's small frame, silencing any arguments, as she tried to breathe through it, sapped of the strength she needed to even cry out. They watched in horror as her body contorted in pain, and fresh blood seeped through the linens bunched between her thighs, staining them a dark crimson.

Nan rushed to replace them as Ned tried again to offer comfort, wrenching his gaze away from the chaos unfolding at the bottom of the bed, and focusing solely on his sisters sweet cherub face. "That's it, deep breaths," he cooed, brushing his fingers across her whitened knuckles, until her grip relaxed and she could open her eyes again.

"I'm sorry Ned," she sobbed, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. "For father, and Brandon. I made such a mess of everything!"

"Shhh," it was Ned's turn to hush her. "Quiet now. None of that matters."

"It does! I'll not die knowing you hate me."

"I could never hate you, little sister." His words were true. Lyanna had made some horrible choices -she had brought death and shame to their family name, but she was a headstrong child who was now paying the ultimate price for her sins. _No ...he could never hate her._ "And you are not dying."

"You are honest to a fault Ned, and I love you for it. Do not start lying to me now," Lyanna chucked him under the chin when he tried to lower his eyes. "It's almost time for the babe to come and I must ask one more thing of you," she panted through the end of the contraction, her grip on his hand tightening once more.

"Anything," Ned nodded, of course he would do anything she asked of him.

"You will love this babe. Raise it amongst your own. Let it not know my shame, I beg of you!" Her voice grew shrill in desperation, the plea of a mother who'd never know her own child.

"I swear it to you," Ned bent his head to brush his lips against her knuckles -he didn't have to think twice.

Bowing her head in return, she turned to Robert. "I would have your word, too."

"You don't know what you ask of me-"

"I do!" She cut him off. "Do not place my sins on the head of an innocent child. For the love you bore me, swear it to me Robert. Please ..." she begged him, just short of hysterics.

"Alright dammit, I swear it!" Robert reluctantly agreed, dragging her hand to his lips before pressing his forehead into her palm, defeated.

"Thank you," she brushed her hand through his thick black locks affectionately before turning back to Ned. "Give Benjen my love and if it's a girl, name her for our mother."

Ned could only nod, feeling her begin to tense up on the wave of another contraction. _Lyara_ ...it would be a fitting name for a baby girl in the image of his beloved little sister.

"My Lady?" Nan stood poised at the bottom of the bed, knife in hand -a question for permission to do the unspeakable.

Lyanna answered with the shake of her head, both of her hands grasping onto Ned's tightly. "I'll be brave big brother, I love you."

Ned tried to focus on her last words, and not the final anguished scream that tore from her throat, as Nan drew the knife across Lyanna's lower abdomen. He tried not to watch as her body spasmed violently on the bed before falling still, tried not to look at her now sightless eyes staring accusingly up at him. The room was spinning out of control, the air wrought with the scent of so much blood, Ned swore he could taste its bitterness in his mouth. He was suffocating, falling into an endless void of suffering, the sounds of Roberts wailing chasing him farther into the chasm as he sat in a dream-like state, still clinging to his dead sisters hand.

Another hand -warm and firm settled upon his shoulder, as Catelyn came to stand behind him, driving the darkness of the void away. A slight tremble in her other hand, she reached to brush Lyanna's sightless eyes closed, then tugged the bed sheet up over her head.

Ned fought to compose himself, in awe of his new wife, for surely he did not deserve this lovely woman with steel in her spine that he had only acquired by default, through the tragic death of his older brother - _murdered by pirates_. More lives uprooted by his sister's selfish decision to flee with a lowborn scoundrel to escape the fate of her own arranged marriage, and yet, Catelyn had shown her nothing but kindness when she arrived a few weeks ago, heavy with child.

The cry of the babe finally freed from its mother's womb, pulled Ned from his thoughts, as Nan laid the wriggling newborn at the foot of the bed. Ignoring its angry protests as she wiped the traces of birth from its body, she announced that it was a boy in perfect health, and Ned breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that his sister had not given her life in vain.

Robert stood, his eyes rimmed red and puffy from crying, and moved towards the crying babe. With a soulful look at Ned, his hand reached for the hilt of his sword, his purpose clear.

Ned lunged for the bottom of the bed, intent on shielding the babe from Roberts wrath. "You mustn't! You gave your word. Does that mean nothing, _Your Grace_?"

"Aye, I gave my word." Robert shot back, his grief turning to anger. "But so did she! She was to be my wife, Ned, the future queen of Westeros! Why should that bastard get to live when she has been taken from me?"

"Because I gave _my_ word," Ned positioned himself between Robert and the squirming infant, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he laid down the gauntlet. "Your sword will have to go through me first then, _brother_."

Roberts eyes narrowed dangerously as they stared each other down, the only sound in the room, the angry grunts of a hungry newborn.

"You're a loyal fool Eddard Stark," Robert snapped, finally relenting, he shoved his sword back into its scabbard. "Keep it out of my sight then, for I never wish to lay my eyes upon it again." He stomped towards the door, his boots heavy on the wooden floorboards, and reached for the latch, turning back once more. "I mean it."

Ned could only nod his head in understanding as Robert slammed the door behind him, the echo of his threat ringing in his ears.

* * *

 **Chapter 1 - Whispering World, A Sigh Of Sighs**

" _Whispering world, a sigh of sighs,_

The ebb and the flow of the ocean tides.

One breath, one word may end or may start.

A hope in a place of the lover's heart.

Hope has a place in a lover's heart."

"Hope Has A Place" -Enya, The Memory of Trees

 _ **Kings Landing, Westeros 1817**_

Sansa dragged the silver handled brush through her long auburn hair and studied her reflection in the looking glass. In two days she would marry the King. She supposed she should at least _try_ to look the blushing bride-to-be.

When she'd first arrived in Kings Landing, a fortnight from her fourteenth name day, Joffrey had been everything she'd imagined and more. Doting, kind and chivalrous -her handsome golden lion, the prince of her dreams. And then her father had returned to Winterfell and shortly after that, King Robert had perished in a hunting accident. It was then, after his coronation, that another side of Joffrey had begun to emerge - _or maybe_ it was there all along and she had just been a stupid, silly girl, blinded by her infatuation.

Sansa paused, setting the brush down on her wardrobe and ran her finger lightly against the purple bruise high on her cheek. The latest consequence of angering the King -tainting her otherwise perfect ivory skin. Lately, it was merely her presence that seemed to provoke his ire, leaving her to wonder what was yet to come, and if she had the strength to endure it.

She felt isolated and alone, now that her friend Margaery had left court and she and her brother and grandmother had returned to High Garden -guests of Lord Renley, who recently went home to the Storm Lands. Sansa suspected that Cersei and her father had a hand in that, driving out everything stag and Baratheon, in favor of Lannister. Even the Keep decor had been draped in golden lions -it was almost as if the great ruling house Baratheon had never existed.

Sweet Margaery, how Sansa missed her dear friend who had helped make things bearable. Now, she was _truly_ alone.

She longed for Winterfell, longed for her family. For sweet little Rickon, his head full of curls and innocent curiousness. For Bran and his thirst for knowledge and his encompassing wisdom -burying himself in his books to pass the time while bedridden. Arya, stubborn and willful, as she was fierce and loyal -whom Sansa always secretly wished she be could more like. Robb, courageous yet gentle, like father, copper colored hair and kind blue eyes like mother -who turned any young maiden's head. Even her cousin Jon, whom she hadn't seen since he'd left for a life at sea two years before she'd even departed for the capital. She missed them all.

More often then naught, she wished she hadn't been so obsessed with becoming the Duchess, and instead had spent more time sewing with her mother, or reading to Rickon and Bran. That she'd worked harder at being nicer to her little sister, hugged her big brother more, and had treated her cousin Jon with kindness, instead of ostracizing him as most of Westeros did. After all, it was his mother who had brought shame to the Stark name - _not_ him.

It was through her aunt Lyanna's folly that Sansa had become Joffrey's betrothed. An attempt to right past wrongs, she supposed. King Robert had sworn their families were destined to be joined, and in the beginning, Sansa hadn't minded, wanting more than anything to be the handsome young prince's intended bride -protesting vehemently when her parents objected to the match.

 _"Sweet one," her father had said to her, as he'd gently stroked her angry flushed cheek. "Listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me."_

Her mother had been less subtle, citing Joffrey as nothing but a spoiled cad with a cruelness in his eyes. She'd been right, of course -but how was Sansa to know such things at the tender age of twelve? With nothing left to do but reflect on the past and the many blunders she'd made, her outlook on life had changed exponentially over the years. She was a slow learner, it was true - _but she learned._

Several times over the last years, Sansa had considered calling off the betrothal, but knew that her family would fall farther into financial ruin -especially now that King Robert had passed away. He'd waived her dowry, but she doubted the Lannisters would be so generous -and her family needed every bit of coin they could spare for Brans medical needs. Being born without full use of his legs had been a financial hardship on her family from the start. Costly doctor's visits and even traveling around the world seeking a cure had quickly burned through the family's finances -and while most doctors had given up on him from birth, Bran had refused to quit. He was a Stark after all, and the Starks endured.

Indeed, the Starks endured - _and so would she_. By morn tomorrow, she'd be hugging them all again -the only silver lining to her upcoming nuptials. Her family would be in attendance for her wedding and the celebration that followed thereafter. All, but her cousin, Jon.

A knock on her chamber door stirred Sansa from her thoughts. A handmaiden, come to fetch her for the morning meal -the one she sent away earlier to dress on her own, so she didn't feel like eyes were always upon her. Eyes of the Queen Regent. Cersei was always watching...

Sparing one last glance at herself in the looking glass, Sansa smoothed the skirts of her gown and allowed the handmaiden to escort her to the King's chambers. The heels of her shoes clanked against the cold stone walkway beneath her feet, echoing in corridor -empty, but for the Kings Guard.

Ser Meryn Trant stood sentient by Joffrey's chamber doors -the man who had taken perverse pleasure in putting his hands on her at the Kings behest -until Joffrey found he enjoyed it all the more when he did took to the task himself. Sansa kept her eyes lowered, feeling the hair rise at the back of her neck as the man's cruel gaze burned into her. She'd wished for his death a thousand times since he'd first struck her, but wishing would not bring her justice, nor solace.

The door swung open as Ser Jamie stepped aside to allow her entrance, and Sansa didn't miss the frown that pinched his lips when he noticed the fresh bruise high on her cheek. She kept her eyes lowered as she passed by him -one of the few that remained kind to her in this hell hole, he was an unlikely ally, though Sansa didn't dare trust him. She'd heard the rumors like everyone else -the whispers about Ser Jamie and the Queen, and how their affection far surpassed that of siblings. She'd heard other rumors too, but those were too terrible for her to even entertain.

Lord Tywin -the self appointed Hand of the King, sat at the head of the table. The one commanding presence that Joffrey scarcely challenged, who often treated him as the petulant child he so frequently behaved as. Yet even he seldom spared her from the Kings cruelty and errant temper -accepting the poor excuses offered for her injuries without question.

"Lady Stark," he acknowledged her with a dip of his, indicating she take a seat, and once she had, he waived for the servants to begin filling their plates with their morning fare. "What happened to your face, child?"

"A mishap in the Godswood, my Lord," Sansa answered quickly, casting a nervous glance at Joffrey who was glowering at her over his goblet. "A low hanging tree branch." She'd become so accustomed to lying, she did it quite well now.

"Do be more careful, little dove," Cersei crooned with feigned concern, as she plucked a ripe berry from her plate and popped it into her mouth. "T'would be a pity to permanently mar a face so lovely as yours."

"Yes, it would," Ser Jamie added rather forcefully, as he took a seat at the table opposite of her, ignoring Cersei's angry eyes cast upon him.

"Why do you spend so much time there?" Princess Myrcella asked with the sweet innocence of the gentle heart she carried, her eyes fixated on Sansa's bruised cheek. Sansa long suspected at one time or another she and Tommen might have been the former subjects of Joffrey's twisted machinations.

"That does not concern you, Princess," Tywin scolded her.

Myrcella lowered her eyes and nibbled on some bread before changing her tactics. "I saw your wedding gown earlier when I was being fitted. Sansa, it's lovely! Gold brocade and lace. You shall paint quite the stunning picture with the radiant coloring of your hair."

"You're very kind," Sansa smiled sweetly, reaching for a lemon cake, and wondered why she hadn't made more of an effort to befriend Robert's middle child. "I'm sure you will be stunning as well. Your gown is pink, correct?"

"Red," Myrcella sighed, rolling her eyes. "I wanted it to be pink, though."

"Lannisters wear red on special occasions," Cersei interjected. "We show pride in our house colors."

"But we are Baratheon," Tommen chimed in.

"Yes, but in name, only. At heart, you are golden lions. Fierce and bold."

 _And prideful_ , Sansa thought to herself as she nibbled her lemon cake and the room fell into silence.

"Do you think uncle Tyrion will come?" Again, it was Myrcella determined to keep the conversation at the breakfast table flowing. "I do miss him, so!"

"Not if he has an ounce of humility rolling about in that empty head of his," Cersei spat, tossing the bread she was chewing down onto her plate and exchanging it for her wine goblet. "You shouldn't miss him. He's an embarrassment to this family with his constant whoring and drinking."

Sansa did not miss the irony, as Cersei drained her goblet and reached for the wine carafe to refill it. Tyrion had fled shortly after Lord Tywin arrived at court. It was no secret that he despised the youngest of his children. Sansa hadn't known him very well, but Tyrion had always been kind to her.

"I miss him too," Ser Jamie said, winking his eye at Myrcella and causing her to erupt in giggles, despite the disapproving look from her mother.

"You must be awfully excited to see your family, Lady Sansa. Don't they arrive soon? I think I shall ask that handsome older brother of yours for a dance at the feast."

Sansa opened her mouth to reply, then paused, noting the nervous glances suddenly being exchanged around the breakfast table. All but Joffrey, who was smirking at her -the corner of his mouth titled up in a cruel half smile, to match the hate seething from eyes.

Tywin reached to lay a letter down on the table in front of Sansa. "It arrived from Winter Town just yesterday. Word from your mother, Lady Catelyn."

Sansa's heart begun to accelerate, beating wildly against her breast. Why would her mother send a letter when she was due to arrive any day now? Her hand closing around the folio of paper, Sansa's fingers brushed against the wax seal stamped with her family's sigil -already broken. The fact that they'd already read a personal message scribed to her didn't surprise her in the least. Feeling the heat of everyone's eyes upon her, Sansa's hands shook as she began to unfold the parchment.

"There was an accident," Tywin offered, before her eyes even fell upon the words scrawled out on the paper before her. "Your father was set upon by robbers on the Kings Road ...his injuries proved fatal."

The world began to spin around her, the words on the parchment jumbled together in her disoriented state. This morning Sansa had awoken happier than she'd been in months, the prospect of being reunited with her family, her sole consolation prize in this sham of a marriage -and now, her father was dead ... her family wasn't coming, and her mother's own handwriting was not asking her to come home and mourn with her family -but to instead proceed with the wedding as planned?

"I -I must go to Winterfell at once," Sansa stood, the room still spinning around her. She was almost grateful for Cersei's hand as it snaked around her wrist and drew her back down into her chair.

"You will do no such thing. Your duty is to marry the King. It is what your father would have wanted. It is what your mother expects of you." She said, matter-of-factly.

"The wedding will go on as planned," Tywin nodded in affirmation, his authoritative tone leaving no room for arguments. "Guests have already begun arriving, everything has been paid for. If it is still your wish to visit your home, you may do so after the great feast."

 _Her father was dead._

Sansa slumped in her chair, her manners be damned, her stomach churning. "May I please be excused?"

"You haven't touched your food, my love," Joffrey fixed her with a smug smile.

"I've no appetite, Your Grace," Sansa kept her tone cordial and polite, despite the urge to dive across the table and wipe the smugness from his face. _Oh, but had she the courage of Arya!_

"Nonsense. You need your energy. Eat up. You're entirely too thin. Whatever will I grab onto on our wedding night if I allow you to whither away to nothing but bones?" He continued to toy with her, taking great joy in blatantly disrespecting her in front of his family.

 _Her father was dead._

"Gods, let the girl go," Ser Jamie slammed his spoon down on the table, fixing Lord Tywin with a scathing look.

Tywin nodded his head, and Ser Jamie shoved his chair from the table, and assisted Sansa to her feet. She allowed his escort back to her chambers -but who was she to protest when she was so dizzy she could barely stand on her own, anyway? She clung to his arm, forcing her feet to move, as she fought the tears that threatened to spill. She would not cry -not in front of _them_. Not even, Jamie.

He mumbled something once he left her alone in the confines of her rooms, shutting the door behind him. Sansa thought it might have been his condolences, but she couldn't be sure, as the ringing in her ears had blocked out the sound of his voice.

She felt physically ill, the bile in her empty stomach churning and threatening to come up. Dropping the letter to the floor, Sansa collapsed on her bed, finally releasing the tears she'd been holding at bay. They ran in torrents to soak her pillow as her body shook with uncontrollable sobs in her unrelenting grief.

 _Her father was dead._

Sansa wasn't sure how long she'd lain there wallowing in her misery, only that her handmaiden had come twice -once to bring her some wine, and again later to bring her a tray of food. It sat untouched exactly where she'd left it. When the sun dipped lower in the sky, finally, Sansa forced herself up from the bed. Reaching for the wine carafe, she poured herself a goblet to stop the incessant shaking of her hands. Perhaps she would become like Cersei, drowning her misery in helping after helping of wine. Did it dull the pain, she wondered?

 _Her father was dead._

A knock at the door startled her mid sip, causing her to spill some droplets down the front of her gown. Normally Sansa would have cared for her disheveled appearance, but she couldn't find the strength as she stumbled towards the door, dragging her hand across her mouth to wipe the wine from her chin. It was Lord Baelish that stood on the other side -the Master of Coin. Sansa knew him only as the man who had grown up with her mother, but other than introductions and polite nods in passing, they'd never interacted.

"Lady Sansa," he smiled at her, pity shining in the depths of his eyes, so dark they were almost black. "If I may have a word with you?"

Sansa didn't want his pity. Straightening her spine, she tried to pull herself together and present a more controlled appearance, as she swung the door to her chambers open and stepped aside, allowing him entrance. "My apologies Lord Baelish, it seems I am not fit for receiving visitors today."

"No my Lady, it is I who must apologize for intruding upon you," He replied, closing the door behind him. "I heard the news and came at once to offer you my deepest sympathies. I wasn't close to your father, but I respected him, and I'm sure you know of my fondness for your mother. We were raised as siblings."

"Yes, I have heard." Sansa nodded. Her father had introduced him as such when they had arrived in Kings Landing three summers ago.

"I wonder if I might offer you some advice?" He asked, reaching to clasp her hands in his. When she didn't answer, he continued, "Do not despair. Seek solace in the Godswood, my Lady. There you might find comfort, if not the answers that you seek."

Sansa swallowed, feeling slightly uneasy under his intense stare, as his fingertips grazed intimately over her knuckles. "The Godswood," he repeated, before abruptly releasing her hands and taking his leave.

Sansa stared after him, a little shaken at their odd encounter, but the unease she felt didn't stop her from donning her cloak and slipping out to the palace gardens, deep into the Godswood where her escorting maids didn't follow. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, and after walking the path several times over, Sansa wondered if she'd just imagined what had seemed like a cryptic message.

It was beginning to get chilly as darkness began to advance on the gardens. If she lingered any longer, surely they'd send someone in after her. With a defeated sigh, Sansa turned to head back to the palace, as Lord Baelish stepped out of the shadows, startling her.

"Shhh," he pressed a slender finger to his lips, and took a step closer to her.

As if only now realizing what a bad idea this was, Sansa took a hasty step backward. What had possessed her to come to the gardens so close to dusk? To meet a man she didn't know who may intend to harm her? _Stupid, stupid girl._

Lord Baelish stuck a hand inside his cloak and pulled free a letter - _direwolf sigil wax seal intact_ , and placed it in her trembling hands. Breaking the seal Sansa unfolded the folio to reveal her mother's tidy penmanship -and words that made much more sense than those she'd read earlier.

 _My dearest daughter,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. I believe in my heart of hearts that your father's death was no botched robbery, but an assassination plot, and now your brother Robb has gone missing as well. I no longer feel safe in our own home. With Petyr's assistance, I'm taking your siblings to Essos for the time being. He is like a brother to me, and you will find him trustworthy, I swear it by the old Gods and the new._

 _Your Loving Mother_

"So you understand, my Lady?" Lord Baelish asked, closing the distance between them once more and lowering his voice as he spared a quick glance around them, and extended his hand for the letter.

Sansa was loath to relinquish the only tie she'd left of her family, but knowing it was best, she folded the folio and placed it in his waiting hand. "Robb is missing? But why?" _And what exactly did that mean?_

"Perhaps he was asking the right questions, my Lady," Lord Baelish answered, stuffing the letter back into his cloak.

"And my mother is safe? Arya, Rickon and Bran?" Sansa peppered him, her mother's letter leaving her with more questions than answers.

"They are safe, this I promise you. It is best that's all you know for the time being."

"And what now, Lord Baelish?" Sansa pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, but could not shake the chill that had crept into her bones. Surely her mother didn't truly intend for her to remain behind and wed the King?

"Call me Petyr," he insisted, tucking Sansa under his arm as he began to escort her out of the wood, pressing his lips against her ear as he spoke just above a whisper. "On the morn of your wedding, before the carriage comes to carry you to the Sept of Baelor, you shall excuse yourself to pray here, in the Godswood. No one will object. You shall find all the answers you seek."

Sansa nodded her understanding as Petyr released her abruptly and faded back into the shadows -just as one of the palace guards materialized onto the path.

"My Lady," he rushed to her side. "It grows dark, you should not be out here alone," he scolded her in a fatherly fashion, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.

"Thank you Ser Barristan. I seem to have lost myself." Sansa replied meekly, grateful for his assistance.

"Have you found comfort in your prayers?" He asked, the gentle tone of his voice alerting Sansa that news of her father's death had reached his ears.

 _Her father was dead._

"I do not pray, Ser," Sansa answered him honestly.

"My Lady?"

"It is the only place I can go and be truly alone."

The kind old Knight did not reply, just released a sad sigh and pat her hand affectionately, before escorting her back to the Red Keep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - Run From The One Who Comes To Find You, Wait For The Night That Comes To Hide**

 _Run from the one who comes to find you,_

 _Wait for the night that comes to hide..._

Your eyes black like an animal,

Black like an animal...

"Feral Love" -Chelsea Wolfe, Pain is Beauty

* * *

Grasping the bedpost and clinging to it with all the strength that she possessed, Sansa flinched, as one of her handmaidens tightened the laces of her corset until she could barely draw breath into her lungs. They'd been buzzing around her since the dawn had broke, slathering her body with oils and perfumes even before they had a bath drawn for her. She was already exhausted, and they were nowhere near finished with her.

"What is this contraption for anyway?" She asked through clenched teeth, wincing as the final laces were tied off.

"To enhance your waist m'lady," the tall lanky one who often wore her hair in the fashion of Cersei, answered her. "And to hike up your breasts."

"Hike them to where? Into my throat?" Her tone incredulous, Sansa peered over her shoulder, finding even the slightest movement difficult.

"They're the height of fashion in Volantis, m'lady," the new one with the black hair and a strange accent, chimed in, as she readied the next batch of perfumed oils on the wardrobe.

"Don't people in Volantis like to breathe?" Sansa was perplexed. Who would purposefully wear something like this -a torture device hidden beneath a gown that no one saw, anyway?

"I do not know, m'lady. 'Twas a gift from Her Grace, and she insisted upon you wearing it."

As if conjured from their very words, Cersei sashayed into the room unannounced, dragging her skirts of red and gold behind her. She looked every bit the regal commanding queen -stunning, with her hair piled high atop her head, her ears and neck weighed down with Lannister gold. Despite the warm hues she was draped in, she regarded them all with her cold stare, and Sansa imagined if she could see through to Cersei's heart, she'd find it beating black as the night skies within her breast.

Sansa swallowed uncomfortably, feeling naked under the Queen Regent's scrutinizing gaze, despite the cover of her shift and corset. As her handmaidens stopped what they were doing, scrambling to curtsy before Her Grace, Sansa quickly slipped her arms into her silk dressing robe, and followed suit, wincing as the corset dug into her ribs.

"You'll get used to it," Cersei sympathized, waiving her up with the flick of her wrist. "All preparations are in order, I came to check how you're progressing."

Sansa tugged her robe tighter around her, noting that it did little to lessen the feeling of being stripped bare by the Queen's assessing gaze. "I've only to dress and have my hair fashioned, Your Grace."

Cersei nodded, drifting her fingertips over the intricate stitching of Sansa's ivory and gold brocade gown, draped carefully over the bed. She reached for the veil, smoothing her hands over the fine lace, and regarded Sansa with her penetrating gaze once again. "When's the last time you bled, Little Dove?"

Sansa could feel the heat creeping up her neck and rising into her cheeks, staining them pink, as she lowered her eyes. Her mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. It was silly -the way the Queen had the power to twist her stomach into knots. Taking a deep breath, Sansa found her voice. "At the turn of the last full moon, Your Grace."

Cersei nodded, seemingly pleased with her answer. "And you know what is expected of you tonight? After the feast?"

"I -I think so," Sansa stammered. _Yes_ , Septa Mordane had told her, cementing it to her memory since her fourteenth name day -Joffrey would take her maidenhead and if the Gods were kind, his seed would take root in her womb.

Thankfully, that would _not_ be her fate tonight - _if_ Lord Baelish could be trusted.

"Leave," Cersei ordered the handmaidens, waiting until they all bowed and made a hasty exit, then procured a small vial from the folds of her gown, and handed it to Sansa. "Rub this between your thighs afterwards."

"What is it?" Sansa turned the vial over in her fingers, inspecting its contents, dread churning deep within her stomach as to what Cersei was implying ... _afterwards_.

"Witch hazel. It will help to ease your ... _discomfort_."

"My discomfort?" Sansa's jaw ticked as she swallowed convulsively.

"Your mother might have prepared you," Cersei huffed, rolling her eyes heavenwards as she moved to the table and helped herself to the carafe of wine, surprising Sansa by pouring two goblets. "There will be pain," she turned, smiling into her goblet, as Sansa reached for hers with a shaky hand. "Possibly some blood. A small price to pay for the greatest honor of being a queen, bringing little princes and princesses into the world." She tilted her goblet in Sansa's direction, "A prospect that once delighted you."

There was no mistaking the accusation in her tone. It was true, there was a time Sansa had wanted more than anything to bear Joffrey's children -to bring an army of his little golden haired babies into the world. Dreams of a silly girl who didn't know any better, her hopes dashed by his unbridled cruelty to her. "I wish to bear children for his Grace," Sansa lied, with a proud tilt of her chin. "Strong sons and beautiful daughters."

"If the Gods are kind," Cersei nodded, reaching for Sansa's chin, and tilting her face up towards the light to inspect the bruise on her cheek -less darker than it was two days ago, but still blatantly obvious. "I know Joffrey is difficult," her eyes softened the slightest bit, and had Sansa not been watching her so intently, she might have missed it. "After the death of my firstborn son, I doted on him more than I should have ..."

"Joffrey is not your first born?" Shocked, the question poured forth from her lips before she'd had the chance to think better of it. Her hand immediately flying to her errant mouth, Sansa fumbled through an awkward apology, "I -I'm so sorry, it's not my business."

"No, it's quite alright." A sadness filled Cersei's eyes as she stared ahead, looking through Sansa, as if lost in her memories.

"I had a son. A darling boy, with hair black as the night -the image of his father." She released Sansa's chin and clutched her goblet with both hands, a trembling in her fingers. "Such a little thing, a bird without feathers ... he was only with us for a day ...couldn't beat the fever that stole him in the night. And Robert-" her hand crept up her neck to fiddle with the lion pendant at her throat, "well, I suppose that no longer matters."

Such pain and longing in her voice, Sansa almost felt sorry for Cersei. Every time she was convinced the womans blood ran black, the Queen would have a human moment, shaking the foundations of her senses. Sansa couldn't help but wonder if she was always so cold and calculating, or if the circumstances she'd been thrust into had molded her into the formidable woman standing before her now. _Would she suffer the same fate if she didn't get away?_

And just like that, it vanished, Cersei's eyes snapping back to the present. "You may not love the king, but you will love his children. Rest assured."

"I love his grace with all my heart," Sansa answered quickly - _perhaps_ too quickly. Her response sounding rehearsed, even to her own ears.

"How very touching of you to say," Cersei tilted her head and arched a shapely brow. "Permit me to share some womanly wisdom with you on this very special day?" She took another swallow of her wine before continuing, leaning against one of the high canopy posts of the bed and fixing her sharp blue eyes on Sansa again.

"Guard your heart, Little Dove. The more people you love, the weaker you are. You'll do things for them that you know you shouldn't do. You'll act the fool to make them happy, to keep them safe. It is a monstrous emotion, intent on making monsters of us all." She paused a moment, as if carefully contemplating her next words. "Love _no one_ but your children. On that front, a mother has no choice."

"But ...shouldn't I love Joffrey, Your Grace?"

Cersei looked thoughtful, gazing into her wine, "You can try, Little Dove." She drained the goblet's contents and set it down on the table, making her way towards the chamber door, "Though Joffrey will show you no such devotion." With a nod, she was gone as abruptly as she'd come, in a swoosh of red and gold silk.

Sansa barely had time to ponder her words when her handmaidens swooped back in and set upon her like buzzards intent on gleaning her flesh from the bone. In a flurry of oils, silks and lace, they assisted her into her gown, then sat her down to cover the bruise on her cheek with some carefully placed powder and rouge. The last and final task was to pile her long red locks into a crown of intricate braids and curls high atop her head, weaving her veil into its folds.

When they had finally finished, they stepped away, allowing Sansa to inspect herself in the tall looking glass on the far side of the room. She had wished for this day for most of her childhood, wrapping her identity around it, even -and now that it was upon her, a reality and no longer a dream, _Sansa was no longer that girl._ Sometimes she wasn't sure who she was anymore -but certainly _not_ this stranger who resembled the Queen that now regarded her in the form of her own reflection. A trick of the light? Perhaps too much wine?

Dragging herself away from the mirror and it's untruths, Sansa sent her handmaidens away, and ran to the window. Lord Baelish hadn't been specific on the time frame other than _before_ the carriage arrived.

Torn between not wanting to draw attention to herself, and her impatience to be free of the Red Keep for good, Sansa stole into the corridor and headed for the palace gardens. She found them relatively empty -their usual occupants probably already lining the pews in the Sept of Baelor, and despite her convenient excuse of seeking prayer before the ceremony on the ready, she could not stop the sudden trembling of her body as she moved on unsteady legs towards the Godswood.

"Lady Sansa!" It was Myrcella's musical voice that gave her pause when she was so close to her destination.

For a moment Sansa considered ignoring her, feigning ignorance -she was far enough away for it to be plausible, but in the end -and _even_ in her urgency, the princess had always been kind, and so kindness she would show her in turn.

"Princess Myrcella," Sansa turned, ignoring the shooting pain in her ribs and she dipped into a curtsy.

"Stop that! We are soon to be sisters, you and I," Myrcella smiled fondly up at her. "And soon _I_ will be bowing to _you_."

Sansa returned her smile, clutching her aching ribs in an attempt to steady her shaking hands. "I suppose you're right. You look lovely," she complimented the princess -a miniature version of her mother, who unlike Cersei, truly radiated the warmth of the hues she wore. "Red is such a striking color on you."

"And you are a vision!" Myrcella gushed excitedly. "Have you come to seek peace in the gardens to ease your nervousness?" She asked, her eyes focusing on Sansa's trembling hands, she was polite enough not to mention it outright.

Sansa clasped her unruly hands together, willing them to be still. "Yes. And to pray for the God's blessings," again, her lies came easy despite the fear coursing through her veins.

"Forgive me for interrupting you then," Myrcella apologized, swooping in suddenly to fold Sansa in a quick embrace and stretching up on the tips of her toes to peck her on the cheek. "I'll leave you to it."

Sansa hugged her back, deciding she would miss Myrcella. Under better circumstances, they might have been close. Perhaps like her and Margaery, even. Squelching the urge to tell her goodbye, Sansa turned, intent for the path, when suddenly Myrcella's hand shot out and clamped onto her elbow.

Startled, Sansa whirled around, her heart dropping into her stomach. _Did Myrcella know? How could she? Had her nervous behavior given her away? Had someone seen her that night with Lord Baelish? Was this a trap?_ A million thoughts flew through her mind as she forced her eyes to meet Myrcella's.

"Careful Sansa, you'll stain your gown," the Princess pointed to the berry bush Sansa had nearly trampled in her haste. "Pokeberries," she explained. "As messy and deadly as they are lovely."

Forcing herself to swallow, the lump that had lodged in her throat, Sansa mumbled her thanks as she sidestepped the Pokeberry bush and finally found herself on the path that led into the Godswood.

The trees seemed to lean in, shrouding her like a cloak of the Old Gods, as she moved along the path, deep into the wood towards the place she had met Lord Baelish previously. The path was vacant, the spot empty -no notes, or indication that anyone had left word for her. After pacing the path several times over, her anxiousness turned to frustration, Sansa's fists balling at her sides -he'd been so vague ... was she even in the right place?

Suddenly, darkness bore down upon her, Sansa's entire world going black as a heavy cloth settled over her head, blocking out any traces of the sun overhead. Fear slammed through her with a force that was crippling - _what have I done?_ Willing her body to react, Sansa opened her mouth to cry out for help, as a pair of hands settled gently on her shoulders, and a familiar voice whispered against her ear.

"It is freedom, not harm that I offer you, m'lady. Come with me."

The voice tugged at her reasoning as Sansa realized it was only a cloak that had been tossed over her, meant to disguise her from prying eyes. She peeped out from under the hood to see her would-be savior was one of her handmaidens -the black haired one with the strange accent.

"Come now," the woman clasped her hand and urged her forward.

They ran through the Godswood, heading deeper and deeper into the cover of the woods until the path below their feet disappeared and moss and dirt took its place amidst the jutting tree roots underfoot. Sansa struggled to keep up, the blasted corset digging into her ribs and preventing her from drawing a full breath into her lungs, she was tiring quickly, her heavy layers of skirts weighing her down until her legs felt leaden and she feared they would give out on her.

Her handmaiden stopped abruptly, shoving Sansa against the bark of a wide tree, to catch her breath. She clutched at the waist of her gown, her chest heaving as she fought for air.

Recovering much faster, the handmaiden advanced on Sansa, a determined look in her eyes as she flipped the cloak open and gripped the bodice of Sansa's wedding gown with both hands, ripping it straight to the waist. Sansa didn't have time to question motives, her eyes widening in fear as the woman jerked a knife from under her skirt, and came at her again.

Years of being wary of whom she could trust, it took a moment for Sansa's brain to register that the maid was only trying to help, as she hooked her blade under the restricting cord and cut the corset free from Sansa's body, tugging it away and tossing it to the forest floor. Her deflated lungs immediately expanded as Sansa filled them with the air they sought, mumbling her thanks in a flurry of words that made no coherent sense. The handmaiden seemed to understand, only nodding, as she tucked the cloak protectively around Sansa to help conceal her lack of dress -clad only in her shift now.

"Who are you?" The woman hadn't been in her service for long, and Sansa now wondered if she'd been an intentional plant. _But how could that be?_ Lord Baelish had only just come to her two days ago, and the woman had been with her for weeks now. "Why are you helping me?"

"I am called Shae m'lady, and you are not like the others."

"They'll hang you for this-"

"I have no intention of going back, nor getting us caught," Shae vowed. "Come," she grabbed Sansa's hand and tugged her forward, there was no time for questions.

They pushed through the woods again, leaving Sansa's torn gown where it lay by the tree -behind her now, a metaphorical shedding of her old skin, as they ran forward. _There was no turning back now._

Deeper into the woods they delved, the forest becoming thicker with every step. The heavy foliage scratched at their legs and faces, the looming trees above blocking out the sun's light. In the darkness of the deep wood, it seemed as if the forest had come alive, the trees grabbing for them with gnarled branches for hands, pulling at Sansa's hair and clothing, intent on keeping her confined in their ancient shroud.

There was light up ahead, as they finally made their way to a break in the trees -the palace walls loomed before them, blocking their freedom. Sansa's heart began beating painfully in her breast - _to have come this far only the be trapped_. Shae payed them no mind, placing her finger against her lips, indicating that Sansa be silent as to not draw attention from the guards positioned atop the wall. They kept within the edge of the tree line, using the woods for cover, as they followed the wall straight to the sea, where a man with a dinghy awaited them, and _conveniently_ no guards were present.

"Keep your head down," Shae instructed her, draping a protective arm around Sansa's shoulders, as they climbed into the little boat.

Sansa did as she was told, hiding her face as best she could within the hood of her cloak, and keeping her eyes to the planks at her feet. The boat ride was relatively short, the man rowing them to a small fishing dock just beyond the city, where Shae tossed him a small coin purse as they climbed out onto dry land.

Again, they ran. Past women scrubbing laundry in wash tubs by the ocean, past carts in a makeshift market filled with things Sansa had never seen before - _and some she hoped to never see again_ , past men both sleeping and pissing in the streets like animals, and children with dirty faces and curious eyes. They ran until the stones dug into the thin bottoms of her dainty slippers, and her lungs burned from the salty sea air -her nostrils filling with the foul smell of the city she'd always been _mostly_ sheltered from.

Finally, they'd reached their destination, a two story building just a few blocks from the harbor. Without a word, Shae ushered her inside, slamming the door behind them, and trying unsuccessfully to shield Sansa's eyes from the man rutting against a women's thighs in the far corner.

"Don't look," Shae said, weaving her fingers through Sansa's and tugging her away from the couple who continued on, uncaring of their added presence in the room.

"What is this place?" Sansa's voice was a hushed whisper, laced with revulsion and morbid curiosity.

"Somewhere you should never know, m'lady," Shae sighed. "Come."

She led her into the next room, filled with scantily clad women with painted faces and heavy perfume -the mixture of scents making Sansa feel dizzy in her state of shortened breath. Unlike the couple in the previous room, the women all stared with avid curiosity, as Shae pulled Sansa up the staircase in the corner, and led her to the second floor. It was cleaner here -that was the first thing Sansa noticed as they crested the landing, and Shae seated her on the edge of a large chaise lounge, and lowered the hood of her cloak.

"Now what?" Sansa asked, finally able to catch her breath for the first time in what seemed like hours, as Shae pulled the pins from her hair and removed her veil.

"Now, we wait."

* * *

It was dark when the bells of the Sept clanged again - _did they toll for her?_ Sansa wondered, as she tugged her cloak tighter against body. Shae hadn't moved from her spot in the room's only window -a silent sentinel, she stood watch ... waiting ... For what? Sansa had no clue, despite Lord Bealish telling her she'd find all the answers she sought. Today's events had left her with only _more_ unanswered questions.

The clopping of horse hooves carried through the open window, as Shae stood. A chill ran the length of Sansa's body - _was it the palace guard? Had they found her?_ The look on Shae's face wasn't that of alarm, as she moved away from the window and reached for Sansa's hand.

"Come. It is time."

Sansa followed her back downstairs, this time ignoring the inquisitive eyes of the painted whores, and breathing a sigh of relief that the couple fornicating in the corner was gone, as Shae swept her out the door and into the waiting carriage.

Lord Baelish sat in the seat across from them, a satisfied smile on his face. "Well done," he complimented Shae as he tossed her a cloak similar to Sansa's and tapped the roof of the carriage, alerting the driver to go. "Kings Landing is already abuzz about the King's betrothed gone missing. They whisper of your rape and murder, as the palace guards currently comb the Kingswood where your torn wedding gown was found," he explained to Sansa, then turned to praise Shae. "Your quick thinking has given us the upper hand."

"It was only to help us move faster," Shae admitted honestly, seeming uninterested in Lord Baelish's appreciation.

"I've booked you passage on a merchant ship headed to Braavos. Shae will accompany you. When you arrive, a carriage will greet you on the docks to bring you to your mother. Everything has already been arranged and paid for."

Sansa nodded, feeling like she should say something, but unsure what. She could smell the ocean as they approached the docks, and the carriage came to a halt.

Shae slid her cloak around her shoulders then exited the carriage first, sticking her head back in the door and nodding that it was safe, before Lord Baelish stepped down, and offered Sansa his hand. He escorted them to the docks, not releasing Sansa's hand, and instead, tucking it into the crook of his arm, as they walked the short distance.

A well-dressed bald man clad in robes approached them as they stepped onto the promenade that led to the pier, addressing Lord Baelish as "Little Finger", and he in turn addressing the man as "The Spider". Their banter was cordial, but Sansa sensed they shared a mutual suspicion of one another.

"Out for a late night stroll?" The man asked, his tone was whimsical as he arched a quizzical brow at them.

"Just transporting two of my newest recruits to Braavos," Lord Baelish answered, before flinging his own question. "And what brings the spider so far from his web?"

"I fear I suffer from political fatigue," the man sighed dramatically. "I'm headed for friendlier faces and friendlier shores, visiting a friend in Pentos while I consider retirement."

"A safe journey to you then, Lord Varys," Petyr was eager to end the conversation, nodding politely and making his stance clear.

"And to your companions as well," Varys nodded towards Sansa and Shae before continuing down the promenade in the opposite direction.

Lord Baelish watched him leave, then reached for the coin purse at his waist and tossed it to Shae. "Stay below deck," he warned them, as he moved them towards the pier. "My bargain is with the captain alone, and he'll be busy commanding a ship, with no time to watch out for you. These sailors are a coarse, suspicious lot, who spend most of their time without a women's company and will think nothing of tossing you to the deck and pushing up your skirts."

Sansa nodded her understanding, unable to stop the tremor that shook her frame.

"I don't mean to speak so frankly to you my lady, but your safety is of my utmost concern. I promised you to your mother unharmed, and I intend to keep my word," his tone softened as he brushed his fingertips across her knuckles.

The short stroll down the pier brought them to a gangplank of a small merchant ship. _They'd made it, freedom and safety was within reach!_

"Thank you for everything, Lord Baelish." Overwhelmed with elation, that he hadn't betrayed her trust, that he had kept his word and soon she'd be with her family, Sansa flung herself into his arms.

He seemed hesitant at first, but then returned the embrace, his lips brushing against Sansa's ear as he reminded her to call him Petyr. When Sansa pulled away, she saw that Shae was visibly uncomfortable with the exchange, and couldn't quite understand _why_.

She had no time to ask, as Shae tugged her aboard the ship and immediately below deck to the cabin specified. The space was cramped, the furnishings sparse -consisting only of a single bed and a washstand. At one time - _long ago_ , Sansa might have minded, she might have refused to stay in such meager accommodations -but _that_ Sansa was long gone, and _this_ Sansa was exhausted.

The small bed looked heavenly, as she fell upon it and shut her eyes, thoughts of her family drifting past her closed eyelids, and carrying her to dreamland. Of Rickon and his curls, Bran and his books and Arya with her messy hair and skinned knees -a better shot than all their brothers combined. Of handsome Robb and his lop-sided smile, of her mother with stern words but soft hands, and her father ... _how she missed him_. Even her cousin Jon was present in her thoughts, as sleep captured her in its clutches.

* * *

Sansa awoke to angry voices of men arguing and cursing above deck. Panicked, she turned to Shae, already awake and listening. She held a slender finger to her lips, indicating for Sansa to remain silent.

"What is it?" Sansa asked in a hushed whisper.

"I think we've been boarded."

"Boarded? By what?" _She knew_. She could sense it, the answer registering in her brain as dread settled deep within her empty stomach. There was only one enemy to a merchant ship at sea ...

"Pirates," Shae confirmed her fears.

The shouting increased, followed by random bouts of maniacal sounding laughter, each clomp of a boot overhead chipping away at Sansa's frayed nerves. _How could this be happening? Was she cursed by the Gods? Was this penance for the wrongs she committed in the naivety of her youth?_

"I'm going to sneak up and check it out," Shae informed her, rising from her side of the bed.

Terrified, Sansa locked onto her wrist. " _No_! Stay here with me. You'll be raped."

Shaking herself free from Sansa's grasp, Shae hiked up the hem of her skirt, showing off the knife she used to cut away the corset earlier. " _No one_ is raping me. Stay here."

On silent feet, Shae moved to the cabin door, when suddenly it flew open towards her, and a burly man almost twice the height of Sansa burst into the room. A scar covering the length of his face and disappearing into the kerchief tied over his bald head, he eyed them both as if he'd found a tasty morsel of mutton to chomp on.

"Cap'n!" He yelled over his massive shoulder. "Found some interestin' booty down 'ere!"

"Delightful!" Was the reply that followed, that same maniacal laughter chasing it. "Bring them aloft!"

The man reached for Sansa first, but Shae lunged for him, her fists beating down on him with the effect of a buzzing fly, as she warned him not to touch Sansa. Reaching out a hand bigger than all four of theirs combined, the man slapped her so hard, he knocked her out cold, leaving Shae to crumble to the ground in a heap.

Sansa cried out, fear for her friend at the foremost of her mind, as she dove to the floor beside Shae, placing her body between the beast of a man and her fallen comrade. "What have you done?"

"Ye want some too?" The man asked her, raising his hand as if he meant to strike her.

Sansa shook her head no, immediately stifling her sobs as he indicated for her to get out of his way, bending to retrieve Shae from the floor. Treating her unconscious body like a sack of flour, he tossed her over his shoulder without a care to human decency, and shoved Sansa forward and out the door ahead of him.

Her legs shaking with every step, Sansa forced a proud tilt to her chin, as she climbed the small ladder that led to the main deck -determined not to show them her fear. The merchants were all lined up on one side of the ship -the pirates on the other, their weapons drawn, as the burly man paraded her straight to the Captain.

"Ahhhh, there's our plunder," the Captain greeted her, a short little man with dark hair and the faintest traces of a beard. He spoke perfect English, unlike the brute who'd accosted them below deck, and there was a crazy gleam to his eyes as he swept his gaze over her appreciatively. "Take them to my cabin, Gunther."

Somehow finding courage in the face of danger, Sansa steeled her spine and spoke up, hoping she had the power to turn the tables -to guide her fate ... "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark," she kept her eyes trained on his, forcing her voice to remain even, despite the clutches of fear clawing at her. "If you return me and my handmaiden to my family unharmed, you will be graciously rewarded."

The Captain's smile broadened, reaching the crazy glint in his eyes, as he regarded her in amusement. "Oh, my sweet, lovely lady ...I know _exactly_ who you are."

* * *

 **A/N: So, a couple of things- for starters, thanks for tuning in again for chapter two, and your patience while things unravel ... this is an extremely detailed and complex plot I'm cooking, and I'm pretty sure this will end up being a long fic. I cannot begin to describe how much your feedback means -good or bad, your words let me know that I'm on the right track, so please consider leaving a review ... it's really important to ff writers (in a sense, it's our _only_ form of "payment" for the work we put in, and as a HUGE plus, it _really_ makes our day). Win/win! :)**

 **So, a few things here -welcome Shae to the story. I hadn't included her in the original outline, but when I started writing the Godswood scene, she just kind of popped up on her own, and I realized how well it worked, and went with it -I always enjoyed her dynamic with Sansa, anyway.**

 **The song lyrics I used for the chapter title is a pretty dark song, and inspired much of the "running" scenes -it's worth a google search if you'd like to "enhance" the experience (song title/artist listed above in the opening). ;)**

 **Thanks again guys -see you next update. If you have any questions about Gentle Rogue, you can find me on tumblr: kitten1618x -my inbox is always open. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Welcome back friends! *Just a trigger warning here that this chapter contains aspects of attempted sexual assault.* Not sure about some of the pirate terminology? Check out my Handy Pirate Glossary (at the end of the chapter), that I'll add to and repost with each upcoming chapter. Also -stay tuned at the end for very important notes regarding this very, very "busy" installment!**

* * *

 **Chapter 3 - The Ebb And Flow Of The Ocean's Tides**

Whispering world, a sigh of sighs,

 _The ebb and the flow of the ocean tides._

One breath, one word may end or may start.

A hope in a place of the lover's heart.

Hope has a place in a lover's heart.

"Hope Has A Place" -Enya, The Memory of Trees

* * *

Sansa stumbled into the cabin, her pleas falling on deaf ears, her hands flailing as she scrambled for something to latch onto, lest she be met with the floor. The burly man snickered behind her, his boots clomping loudly on the planks underfoot, as he dumped Shae unceremoniously onto the haggard looking bed in the corner -the linens looking as if they hadn't been washed or changed in some time.

"Don't touch nothin'," he barked his order at her, as he slammed the door behind him with such force, it shook the walls.

Sansa flinched in its wake, immediately diving for the bed, her nose wrinkling at the odor seeping from the threadbare bedding, and smoothed Shae's hair back from her face. From brow to jaw, her skin was already a swollen and mottled angry purple and blue, the corner of her lip bloodied. With a stifled cry and the gentlest of hands she could muster, Sansa wrapped her cloak round her finger, dabbing gently at Shae's mouth, willing her to wake -to be okay.

"Please get up, Shae. _Please_ ," She pleaded softly, her eyes welling with tears to cloud her vision. "You're all I have ..."

"How very touching," the Captain's voice slithered around her like a serpent, silken and dangerous -and Sansa startled, her spine stiffening, but she did not turn to face him. Not yet ...

Tuning her ears to his every movement, Sansa held her breath, listening as the Captain pushed the door closed behind him and shuffled to the opposite side of the room, his steps soft, but deliberate. Her heart beating a painful crescendo against her breast, she reached her hand up under Shae's skirts, her fingertips seeking the cold steel of the dagger she knew lay hidden beneath their folds.

"So, Lady Stark of Winterfell," he drawled over the clanking of tin -a tankard she assumed, as her seeking hand finally found its mark, and slid the blade free from where it was holstered on Shae's calf. "Daughter of the great Eddard and Catelyn Stark, come, break bread with me, and let us discuss my _gracious_ reward."

Her fingers curling around the dagger, Sansa maneuvered it up her sleeve, hiding it in the folds of her cloak, as she turned slowly and regarded her capturer with uneasy eyes. She'd never wielded a weapon before, but knew in that moment that she would do _whatever_ was necessary to protect herself and Shae.

"Surely you're hungry," the Captain's eyebrows rose up to kiss his hairline, as he waved a hand at the meager meal he'd laid out for them -a half a loaf of bread, a single apple and two tankards of ale.

Sansa's stomach growled in reply, having not eaten in - _well_ , she couldn't remember _when_ , exactly. "Perhaps you have a clean strip of cloth, some water?"

"For your companion?" The man shook his head nonchalantly, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "Gunther has quite the heavy hand, but she'll be fine with a little rest love, I assure you. Now," he pulled out a rickety chair from the table where the food was spread, the smile fading from his lips, his eyes taking on a hard glint. "Do not make me ask again."

Something in his tone shook Sansa to her core. She knew she needed to keep her wits about her -do as she was asked, and let him think she could be trusted ... On trembling legs, she rose and forced herself to move forward, somehow managing a steady gait as she crossed the room and lowered herself into the chair he offered. She gasped, her mask temporarily slipping as he shoved her chair in, then took a seat opposite of her, producing a dagger from his hip and reaching for the apple.

"So, what's your story, Lady Stark?" He asked, flicking his gaze at her as he dragged his dagger across the skin of the apple, ridding it of its red flesh with practiced precision.

"M-my story?" She stammered, hating the shakiness of her voice. "I thought you knew _exactly_ who I was ..." Sansa threw his own words back at him, and let the sentence drop, unsure what to address him as. _Sir? Lord Pirate?_ Certainly a pirate did not deserve the honor of being called Captain -even if that's technically what he was.

"I spoke in general terms, you understand," that smile curled his lips upwards again, as he paused his task and dragged an empty pewter plate in front of him. "A typical damsel in distress who resorts to blubbering or bribery. Being taken captive by pirates suddenly turns the poorest of folk wealthy in an attempt to save their wretched lives."

"You think me wretched?" Sansa asked, her fingers itching to grab for the loaf of bread and squelch the incessant gurgling of her empty stomach.

"Prove me wrong. Tell me of your wealthy family, my lady," he bid her, his dagger carving through the apple as if it were merely churned butter, his eyes raking over her, holding her gaze -not once did he look down at the task at hand.

Sansa swallowed nervously, "Wha-what do you want to know?" She laid her wrist down gently on the table, the cold steel of the dagger pressing against the delicate underside of her wrist, giving her the courage she needed to remain calm.

"What's a highborn lady doing below deck a merchant ship, clad only in her underthings? _That_ would be an excellent place to start," his task finished, he pushed the plate of apple slices across the table at her.

Sansa glanced nervously down at her attire -in all the chaos, she'd forgotten about her state of undress. "I was not given the opportunity to dress. Your beastly companion didn't allow me the curtesy before striking my maid down and forcing me above deck," the lie rolled off her tongue with a haughty shake of her head as she reached for an apple slice and nibbled the corner. "I barely had time to reach for my cloak." _There. That made perfect sense._

The Captain regarded her with an amused quirk of one bushy brow, as he brought his tankard to his lips and drank heartily, dragging his sleeve across his mouth when his thirst was sated. "That's funny because, you see, we searched your cabin and found no personal effects. No trunks, no expensive silk gowns ..." With a flick of his wrist, he buried his dagger in the splintered wood of the table. "None of the things that would accompany a fine woman, such as yourself."

The breath leaving her lungs in a whoosh, Sansa leveled him with a gaze that belied the fear that had seeped straight to the marrow of her bones, as she realized she might not be able to talk herself out of this. She opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a sudden rapping on the cabin door.

"Enter," the pirate ordered, his commanding voice holding a trace of annoyance in being disturbed.

Thankful for the distraction, Sansa reached for the loaf of bread and broke off a corner, popping it in her mouth as the door shoved opened and a skinny man with a beard nearly to his waist, popped his head in.

"Beggin' yer pardon ta interrupt ye, Cap'n," the man's eyes swept quickly over Sansa before he continued, "but there's a ship just off the starboard side, an' she's a gainin' on us, she is. Methinks she's usin' the same wind."

"Change our course twenty degrees south," the Captain ordered, waiting for the little man to duck his head with an "aye Cap'n" and shut the door, before turning his attention fully back on Sansa. "You were saying, my lady?" He waived his hand for her to continue.

Sansa gnashed her teeth against the stale bread, wracking her brain for a suitable answer. The pirate watched her in avid amusement, folding his hands on the table in front of him, and patiently waiting for her to force the dry lump of crust down her throat. She swallowed and reached for the tankard of ale with a shaky hand, and _still_ , the pirate waited silently, the same charming, yet dark smile plastered on his comely face.

"We were robbed," she answered simply, coughing as she gagged on the sour brew. "On the Kings Road," a stabbing pain tearing at her heart when she spoke of the place her father had drawn his last breath, but she needed details for her lie to sound convincing. "They took everything, and we were forced to barter passage on the merchant ship -thankfully the Captain took pity on us."

"My apologies, my lady. It sounds like you've had quite the harrowing traveling experience," he lifted a hand to his heart, feigning pain, a less-than sincere expression on his face. "Why, I almost feel badly about taking you captive."

"You mock me." It wasn't a question.

The man threw back his head, his maniacal laughter ringing in Sansa's ears as it bounced of the walls of the small cabin. "Yes my lady, I mock you. Because, you see, no self respecting thief would rob you and leave those exquisite and very valuable pearl earrings dangling from your pretty little ears."

Sansa's hand flew to her ear. _Dammit, she'd forgotten about those!_ A wedding gift from Joffrey, they meant nothing to her -she tugged them from her lobes and dropped them to the table. "Take me to Bravvos, and they're yours." This pirate was obviously an educated man - _perhaps_ he could be reasoned with?

He stopped laughing, and leaned forward -but left the earrings where she'd dropped them. "Well, that's very generous of you my lady, but of course you know, they already belong to me." He dragged his eyes down to the swell of her breasts, and flicked his tongue across his lips, "And anything else of yours that I deem _valuable_."

His words sending a shiver shooting down the length of her spine, Sansa swallowed convulsively, her brain _screaming_ at her to keep him talking. "Perhaps you could speak plainly, Captain?"

"What are you hiding, Lady Stark? Is that _plainly_ enough for you?"

"I-I don't even know you ...I couldn't-"

"Easily rectified," the pirate interrupted her, shoving his chair away from the table he stood, giving Sansa a gallant bow. "I am Captain Ramsay Bolton, and _this_ ," he waved his hand in the air around him dramatically, "my glorious vessel, is the Dread ship." He sat back down, propping his booted feet up on the corner of the table, and reached for his tankard of ale again. "Truthfully my lady, I don't know what else I can do to coax the truth out of you. Haven't I been hospitable? Have you been harmed in any way?"

Sansa blanched, unsure what to make of this man -this _Captain Ramsay Bolton_ who sat before her. His demeanor had been polite, _and it was true_ -he hadn't harmed her in any way. But there was something about him that frightened her -and the madness that flashed briefly behind his eyes made her uneasy.

"I -I just need-" _Again_ , a rapping on the cabin door interrupted her -this time, more urgent sounding.

Ramsay lifted a hand to momentarily silence her, and snarled at the closed door. " _Bloody hell_ , what now?"

The same skinny man opened the door just enough to push his face through the crack he'd created. "Apologies Cap'n, but we've changed direction as ye said, and still she gains."

Ramsay rubbed an agitated hand against the stubble at his jaw, then clenched it into a fist. "What colors does she hoist?"

"Hard to say yet, Cap'n."

"Stay the course," he ordered, "Oh and Dinky? Don't interrupt again unless it's _really_ important -detrimentally so..."

The man blinked his confusion, then nodded solemnly, issuing his "aye Cap'n" before disappearing behind the closed door.

"Again," he waved Sansa on, "as you were my lady ... You were about to share with me why you continue to try and deceive me?"

"You are a pirate, are you not? Pardon me Captain, but pirates certainly aren't known for their chivalry and good deeds."

Ramsey slapped his hand on his thigh and gave Sansa another of his crazy laughs. "Now then, I think that's the first truthful thing you've said to me. By all means, Lady Stark, don't stop now."

"You mock me again."

Ramsay heaved a sigh, dropping his feet back to the floor and jerked his dagger up out of the table, splintering the wood and making Sansa jump in her chair. "I do love a good game of cat and mouse, but I grow weary, Lady Stark."

"I've already told you who I am," Sansa shot back -the arrogant man sitting across from her wasn't the only one tiring of playing games. "I don't understand how my plight is relevant to your quest for a hefty ransom."

"Oh, but it is," Ramsay crooned, his lips twisting into that frighteningly charming smile once more. "You see, I recognize the name Stark. In fact, wasn't it a Stark girl set to wed the king?"

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath before she could stop herself. Reaching clumsily for her tankard of ale, she brought it to her trembling lips in an effort to hide her distress.

"And an honest reaction to boot," his voice taunted from beyond her cup. "You're wondering how I know? Well, I live on a ship my dear lady, not under a rock. I do occasionally make port -and if a seaman loves anything more than bedding a woman, it's wagging his tongue ... I hear she's quite lovely -ivory skin and striking red hair."

Sansa slammed her tankard down on the table, "M-my sister," she stammered through yet _another lie_ -perhaps her clumsiest of all, panting with the effort it took her to not bolt for the door. _And do what? Jump overboard? Swim to shore? Leave Shae behind?_

"An interesting development. So tell me then, Lady Stark -If you're kin to the crown, why waste my time with small fish, like ransoming you to your parents?" He asked, pushing the tip of his dagger up under one of his dirty fingernails. "A clever man goes where he reaps the biggest reward."

Sansa pressed her wrist against her own dagger, drawing on the last reserves of her courage, she quirked a slender brow upwards. "He does, of course. That is, unless he values his life? Piracy is considered a treason against the crown -a crime punishable by hanging. You'll swing from the gallows if you step foot in the capital. Would you consider that fair compensation, Captain - _my_ life for _yours_?"

Ramsay snorted, reaching across the table to stab his dagger into one of the apple slices on the plate in front of Sansa, his eyes boring into hers, he smiled as she let out a little shriek. "My, but aren't we a clever girl? I must admit you have made a good point." Shoving the entire apple slice into his mouth, Ramsay stood and sheathed his dagger. "I guess I better get my monies worth now then," he shrugged, catching Sansa unawares as his hand shot out with the speed of a whip, wrapping around her wrist, and dragging her up from the chair before her mind even registered what was happening.

"No!" Sansa cried out the only thing that immediately came to mind, as she used her height advantage against the him, kicking out at Ramsay's shins with her long legs, as she shoved against his chest and somehow managed to jerk her wrist free.

Twisting from his grip, she turned and attempted to run, when Ramsay's hand shot out again, tangling in the folds of her cloak, and tore it from her body as she broke free. Sansa whirled on him then, Shae's dagger in hand -she slashed wildly at the air, her first strike catching him in the cheek, by pure luck and surprise of the draw.

"A feisty little hellcat, I see," Ramsay spat, swiping his hand against the cut. Instead of being angry, her inflicted wound only seemed to excite him in some perverse way, as he inspected the blood on his fingertips, rubbing them together.

He circled around her slowly, his eyes alight with that same crazy predatory look that shook Sansa straight to her the soles of her feet - _a serpent poised to strike_. She stood her ground, her chest heaving as her blood pounded through her veins, singing in her ears and drowning out the sounds around her.

Ramsay sprung forward suddenly, easily dodging Sansa's furious slashing -now that he was aware of the weapon she wielded. He swooped under her flailing arm, spun and came up behind her, grabbing a handful of her hair in his fist as he shoved her face first up against the wall. Sansa cried out, her arms bracing to shove off the wall, struggling _still_ , although she knew Ramsay had gotten the upper hand. He locked his grip on her wrist and spun her around, slamming her hand backwards against the wall - _over and over_ -bloodying her knuckles until finally Sansa's grip slackened and the dagger clattered to the wooden planks below.

"You like to play cutting games, love?" His breath was hot and foul smelling, turning Sansa's stomach as he drew her pinned wrists above her head, using the weight of his body to hold her in place, as he reached for the cutlass at his hip. "What a coincidence, so do I."

"Please," Sansa pleaded, her chest heaving from fear and exertion, as he brought his cutlass up to her throat, pressing its sharp point against her throbbing pulse.

His maniacal laughter filled the cabin again as Ramsay leaned in and sniffed the air around her. "I can smell your fear, my lady," his voice took on a husky tone, as he pulled the cutlass lower and dragged the sharp blade across the top of her breast, spilling her blood and staining the top of her shift.

Sansa screamed in pain, revulsion coiling through her as she felt him becoming excited, the hard evidence of his desire pressing against the soft swell of her lower abdomen. Her eyes blew wide with terror as he leaned down and licked her open wound, lapping at the blood trickling from it.

"I can taste it too," he murmured against her bare skin, as Sansa struggled against his hold, bile rising in her throat and threatening to choke her breath from her. She'd never imagined she'd meet a more depraved human than Joffrey -but _here he was_ , standing before her in the flesh, her blood staining his lips crimson.

Suddenly the cabin shook, and the world around Sansa began to spin and blur, as a barrage of sounds erupted in her ears -the shrieking of men ...angry curses, splintering wood, and the acrid smell of smoke permeating her nostrils ... The floor came up to meet her -splinters in the palms of her hands, the rending of cloth, the kiss of cold air on her back, Ramsay's hands on her thighs, and screaming -a woman's- _her own maybe?_ No - _Shae's!_

She wailed like a banshee as she rolled from the bed, flinging herself onto Ramsay, as he struggled to defend himself from her surprise attack. "Get up, Sansa!" Her voice was a strangled cry, as Shae locked onto his back, pummeling him with her fists, as he flung himself from side to side in an attempt to shake her off.

Sansa clung to the sound of Shae's voice, letting it drag her from the void of disorientation, as she pulled her knees back up under her and crawled the floor, searching desperately for the dagger she'd dropped, as the fight waged on above her. The rickety table beside her collapsed, its contents clattering to the ground around her, as Shae toppled onto it, and Sansa froze, her eyes widening in horror as Shae lunged for Ramsay again -her own pupils blowing wide with shock, as she impaled herself on the end of his cutlass.

A gurgling sound bubbling up from her throat, she turned solemn eyes on Sansa, her shoulders lurching forward, as Ramsay yanked his cutlass free and she dropped to the floor, unmoving. Sansa screamed, tears bursting forth from her eyes, as she struggled to get her feet under her and make a break for the cabin door. Where she would go -she hadn't the slightest idea, only that she had to get away -away from this vile man and the lifeless eyes of Shae, that seemed to stare accusingly up at her.

She was halfway to the door when a pounding erupted from the other side, accompanied by a man's screaming voice -rambling on about the "hoisting of a dragon and a warning shot being fired over the bow".

"No shit!" Ramsay yelled back, his hand snaking around Sansa's waist as he dragged her backwards to the bed and flung her down upon it. His chest heaving from exertion, he pointed his cutlass at her, still dripping wet with Shae's blood. "You are becoming more trouble than you're worth, my lady," he accused her. "It appears we'll have to continue our little game later. We have uninvited guests."

"Cap'n," the mans voice shouted again, his voice more desperate, his pounding more urgent. "Cap'n, your orders?"

Ramsay heaved a sigh and sheathed his cutlass, moving over to the remains of his crumbled table, and stepping over Shae's body, he bent to retrieve one of the now empty tankards. "Bitch spilled my ale," he grumbled, dropping the tin back to the ground. "Strike the colors," he yelled over his shoulder, issuing his orders. "And tell them I said parley."

The door swung open, revealing a red-headed man with a bushy beard, big as an ox, and holding a battle axe fit to rival Sansa in height. "Tell _him_ yourself," he growled at Ramsay, as he stepped through the threshold.

"Tormund," Ramsay turned, painting on the charming smile that Sansa now knew to be fake. "I wish I could say I'm happy to see you."

The man called Tormund said nothing -just swung the door open wider and waved his axe towards it. His eyes swept the room, taking in the scene before him, his head giving a small shake as his gaze fell onto Shae's lifeless body -and Sansa's disheveled appearance on the bed.

Ramsay took the hint, adjusting his breeches and blowing a kiss at Sansa as he sashayed towards the cabin door. Sansa cringed, turning her head as she sunk further into the bed, wishing the mattress would open and swallow her whole. She wondered if all this was worth escaping the clutches of Joffrey and the Lannisters -then looked to Shae who'd given her life to protect her, to help her escape -and she knew that _it was_ ...and that she _wouldn't stop fighting_ until she was back with her family.

"You too, m'lady," the man Tormund's voice was gruff, but his tone was gentle - _and Sansa didn't trust him one bit ..._

Terrified, she scooted to the edge of the bed and stumbled for the door, doing her best to pull her torn shift together in an effort to conceal her naked back. The comforting weight of a heavy cloak settled on her shoulders as she passed by the giant man. Sansa pulled it tightly around her and turned to thank him, but his eyes were fixed ahead, watching Ramsay's every move as they joined everyone on deck.

A group of men -mostly all dressed in black had Ramsay's crew surrounded. Their assortment of weapons drawn, they parted to allow Ramsay into the circle, as he greeted their leader with false hospitality.

"Aemon," Ramsay crooned, "What can I do for you? You know, I seem to recall telling you I'd kill you the next time you set foot on my ship."

"And I recall warning you that I'd sink your little boat to the bottom of the ocean if I caught you this close to Westeros again," the man called Aemon shot back, stepping off the gangway that temporarily connected the two ships, unmoved by Ramsay's threat.

Sansa's breath caught in her throat - _the man had a Northern accent_. And there was something soothing about the sound of his voice that tugged at her memory -it wrapped around her like a warm blanket, _oddly_ comforting.

"Isn't patrolling the seas the royal navy's job? But truly, a miscalculation on my navigator's part is all. Easily rectified," with a nonchalant shrug, Ramsay plucked one of his crew members from the crowd, pulled his dagger, and slit his throat -then shoved him overboard without a second thought. "There, see?" He stuffed his blade back in its sheath without bothering to wipe it clean, smiling as the men surrounding him from the opposing crew all readied their weapons for attack. "I mean, surely there's a code of honor among fellow thieves?"

"What do you know of honor?" That voice rung through the air again, and suddenly the need to see his face overrode her good sense, as Sansa pushed her way through the crowd - _and all eyes fell on her._

Her mouth fell open, as her heart leapt in her chest - _it was Jon who stood before her!_ For the briefest of moments she saw a softening in his gray eyes - _the flash of recognition_ , and then it was gone.

"You know what I'm here for," he continued, looking past Sansa to glare at Ramsay. He nodded his head to one of his crew members, who squeezed through the crowd and disappeared.

"My coffers are pretty bare," Ramsay waved towards the bow, "and now I'll have to make repairs since you blew a hole in my ship."

Jon ignored him, his hand poised over the hilt of his sword, as he waited -for what, Sansa was unsure, but she suspected it had to do with the man who had disappeared below deck. Her eyes swept the length of him -he looked so different from what she remembered. The roundness of youth was gone from his face, and his once lanky body had filled out with broad shoulders and well defined muscles that peeped out from the red shirt he wore -open nearly to his waist.

The tension in the crowd grew thicker, as they all continued to wait, eyeing each other distrustfully, until the man returned. Shoving his way through the crowd again, he moved to Jon's side and leaned to whisper in his ear.

Jon shook his head, and with a snap of his fingers, some of his crew holstered their weapons and headed below deck. "We're taking half of your holdings Ramsay, _and_ I'll give you eighty dragons for the girl," he nodded his head in Sansa's direction.

"Since when are you in the ransom business?" Ramsay asked.

"Since today," Jon's tone was clipped.

Ramsey looked intrigued -as if he knew there was _something_ more to it, but he wasn't really sure _what_. He smiled sadistically, looking back and forth between Sansa and his rival, before reaching to pinch some of her red hair between his fingertips. "She is lovely, isn't she? Picked her up on a merchant ship headed for Braavos ... She's important to someone." His smile broadened as he shook his head, "No Dragon, I think I'll pass. She'll fetch way more than eighty dragons."

"You're assuming she comes from a wealthy family."

"I assume nothing. And if not, there are other ways she can earn her keep," Ramsay let the threat drop, intentionally provoking Jon, as he tucked the hair in his fingertips behind her ear -the gesture intimate. "I was just about to break her in before your unexpected visit."

Sansa recoiled, cringing at his touch -the fact that Jon was visibly uncomfortable did not escape her - _nor_ did it escape Ramsay.

"You were always partial to redheads, weren't you?" Ramsay sneered as he continued to goad Jon. "How is Ygritte? I haven't been to the isles in quite some time."

"You're not welcome there," Jon shot back, his finger twitching at the hilt of his sword.

"Imagine that -a pirate not welcome in a _pirate_ establishment." Ramsay looked thoughtful for just a moment, and then his lips curled back into that twisted grin, as he arched a bushy brow. "I'll tell you what Aemon, I'll have a go with her, and then you can have her for forty dragons -reduced price for _damaged_ goods"

Jon's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Or I can just kill you."

Ramsey's eyes narrowed too, as he fingered the handle of the cutlass at his hip. "You can try. But doesn't that go against your whole _brotherhood_ code?"

Some of the men emerged from below, interrupting the heated exchange, as they passed by carrying crates and barrels, moving swiftly across the planks between the two ships. Sansa eyed the gangway, tempted to make a run for it, as the man that had whispered in Jon's ear brushed past her with Shae's lifeless body cradled in his arms. He exchanged a look with Jon as he carried her across to the adjoining ship.

Jon tugged a coin purse from his belt and tossed it at Ramsay's feet. It hit the deck with a clanking _thud_ , as the giant red-headed man called Tormund stepped forward, and hoisted Sansa up in his arms. She clung to him, relief flooding through her as she buried her face in his shoulder, too afraid to look down as he carefully crossed the gangplank, then gently set her back on her feet.

Jon was the last to cross over, his men waiting on the ready to immediately pull the planks, as Ramsay glared at them from across the way, and Sansa fought the urge to fling some _very_ unladylike words at him.

"I'll remember this Dragon," he yelled, as the two ships began to separate.

"You'd be hard pressed to forget," Jon shot back, then turned to yell to his crew. "Come about!"

The boom swung out, and sails were unfurled, as Jon's crew scrambled to follow his orders in a chorus of "aye Captain's". The ship listed, as it drifted away from the Dread, and Sansa stumbled as someone cut the rudder hard, her hands reaching for the railing, as her borrowed cloak fell open. Quickly, she drew herself back within its protective folds -but not before Jon saw the jagged cut across the top of her breast.

"Ready the guns," he demanded suddenly, his lips curling into a snarl, as he gripped the railing so hard his knuckles turned white.

In cadence, his call repeated through the ranks, and in a matter of moments there were cannons protruding from the side of his ship. With a swoop of his arm, they fired simultaneously, filling the Dread's hull with holes and effectively broadsiding the most vulnerable part of Ramsay's ship -permanently disabling it.

Jon shoved away from the railing, calling for his Quartermaster, as he headed for the helm. "Davos! Have Edd see to that cut and find the lady something suitable to wear."

"Suitable? Like what?"

"Give her one of Dany's dresses," he waved his hand in annoyance, as Sansa watched him breeze by her without so much as a glance or a word.

The man named Davos patted her hand and greeted her with a warm smile. "Welcome aboard the Viserion, m'lady."

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, yikes -let's address the elephant in the room: Shae's death. I hated to do it, but I supposed it's better than being strangled by your lover after boning his dad, right? Truthfully, she served her purpose in getting Sansa out of Kings Landing, and I really had no place to go with her from here -so what better way to send her out than with the unselfish act of protecting Sansa from harm? I promise my story isn't misery porn, and things will start looking up a bit from here.**

 **Some random things:** **Ramsay calling Jon "Aemon" -that will be explained soon ...** **The color of Jon's eyes -I went with gray (asoiaf canon) as opposed to Kit Harrington's dreamy soft brown peepers. Gray just sounds better, so pretend Kit's are gray if he's who you imagine when reading this, savvy? ;)**

 **Check out the Handy Pirate Glossary below, and see you next update when we jump to Jon's POV! _COMMENTS/REVIEWS ARE APPRECIATED!_**

* * *

 **Handy Pirate Glossary:**

 _Boom_ \- A horizontal pole along the bottom edge of a mast to which the mast is fastened.

 _Booty_ \- Treasure.

 _Bow_ \- The front of a ship.

 _Broadside_ \- A general term for the vantage on another ship of absolute perpendicular to the direction it is going. To get along broadside a ship was to take it at a very vulnerable angle. This is of course, the largest dimension of a ship and is easiest to attack with larger arms. A "Broadside" has come to indicate a hit with a cannon or similar attack right in the main part of the ship.

 _Coffer_ \- A chest in which treasure is usually kept.

 _Colors_ \- Flags hoisted, identifying the ship/pirate's origin. **  
**

_Come about_ \- To bring the ship full way around in the wind. Used in general while sailing into the wind, but also used to indicate a swing back into the enemy in combat.

 _Cutlass_ \- A short, heavy sword with a curved blade used by pirates and sailors. The sword has only one cutting edge and may or may not have a useful point. **  
**

_Gangplank_ \- A board or ramp used as a removable footway between a ship and a pier. Or between ships.

 _Gangway_ \- 1. A passage along either side of a ships upper deck. 2. A gangplank. 3. An interjection used to clear a passage through a crowded area.

 _Helm_ \- The steering wheel of a ship which controls the rudder.

 _Hold/Holdings_ \- A large area for storing cargo in the lower part of a ship. And -the cargo stored wherein.

 _Hoist the/the hoisting of colors_ \- The action of hoisting a pirate's identifying flag. Or, a call to arms in battle.

 _Hull_ \- The body of a ship.

 _Starboard_ \- The right side of the ship when you are facing toward her prow (opposite of port). **  
**

 _Strike (the) colors -_ To lower, specifically a ship's flag as a signal of surrender. **  
**

 _Tankard_ \- A cylindrical, single-handled drinking mug, usually made of pewter. During the 18th century, pewter often contained traces of lead, causing lead poisoning or gout.

 _Quartermaster_ \- The highest ranking pirate on a ship under the captain, usually elected by the crew. The quartermaster was the only officer on a ship who could veto a captain's decision, but only when the ship was not engaged in battle or on a mission. **  
**

 _Rudder_ \- A flat piece of wood at the stern of a ship that dips into the water and is used for steering. The rudder is controlled at the helm. **  
**

 _Run a shot across the bow_ \- A command to fire a warning shot. Or describing said shot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - In My Chest, A Fire Catches, In My Way, The Setting Sun**

In my hands, I hold the ashes.

In my veins, black pitch runs.

 _In my chest, a fire catches._

 _In my way, the setting sun ..._

Dark clouds gather 'round me,

Due northwest, the soul is bound.

And I will go, on ahead free,

There's a light yet to be found...

"The Last Pale Light In The West" -Ben Nichols, The Last Pale Light in the West

* * *

His insides churning, Jon gripped tightly to the helm as the Viserion sliced through the waves, her sails riding the favorable winds. The seas were calm, the ship on course, and there was no valid reason for him to remain at the helm -he _knew it_ -his crew _knew it_ -damned if anyone _dared_ risk voicing it, though.

He was angry - _so fucking angry_ \- seeing that cut on Sansa's breast had brought forth a seething rage from within him that bordered on frightening. _Almost_ as frightening as _seeing_ Sansa -as if she were a ghost summoned straight from his past. A past he was still running from, even now ... A past it seemed he couldn't escape.

What in bloody hell was she doing at sea? And on Ramsay Bolton's ship, no less? _Was she daft?_ Did she know the vile things that man was capable of? Why even some of the most detestable pirates Jon knew avoided associating themselves with the likes of the Captain of the Dread? He shuddered to think of what might have befell her If he hadn't happened upon them purely by chance ...

But he had, of course, because Jon needed to know if the rumors were true -if his beloved uncle was _really_ gone. His brief port in Dorne had brought whispers of Ned Stark's death, and the letter in Jon's pocket had nearly burst into flames -the last word he'd received from his uncle ...the cryptic message he'd yet to decipher.

He'd been making his way up the coast, working the nerve to drop anchor in White Harbor, when he spotted the Dread ship -her Flayed Man colors flapping in the wind. Jon had warned Ramsay the last time he'd caught him plundering so close to Westeros, and Aemon the Dragon did _not_ make threats lightly. One could not afford to in his position.

Jon closed his eyes and inhaled the salty sea air, tuning his ears to the sounds of the water lapping at the hull in an attempt to squelch the fury still simmering within him. More than likely Ramsay and his crew were dead and if not - _Gods save them from his wrath_ if he so much as caught a whiff of _any_ one of them again.

"Captain?" Jon's eyes snapped open at the title. It was his Quartermaster Davos who stood at his side, hands subserviently clasped behind his back as he gazed ahead to the horizon.

"Yes?" Jon sighed. He knew when Davos took that particular stance, it was usually less than favorable news he carried.

"I've sent Gendry to the galley to fetch the lass a bite to eat, but she's refusing Edd's assistance."

Jon's grip on the helm tightened. "That wound needs mend-"

"I know what it needs Jon," Davos interrupted him, one of the select few who were allowed to address him so informally on deck. "But the lass is frightened. Perhaps a familiar face ..."

"You presume-"

"I presume nothing," Davos cut him off again, taking a step closer so his words reached Jon's ears, and Jon's ears alone. "She has asked for you by name." He arched his bushy brows, and leaned in closer. "By your _given_ name."

Jon released a heavy breath, turning soulful eyes on his Quartermaster. There was no reason to deny it -Davos saw through him like no other. "I am as much a stranger to her as anyone on this ship."

That much was _indeed_ true. The last time he'd seen his cousin, she was naught but a bright-eyed girl of twelve summers, immersed in her songs and stories of gallant knights and maidens fair, positively brimming about the possibility of her betrothal to the scabby little Duke of Kings Landing.

Joffrey was King now -did that mean Sansa was his bride? The Queen? Just the thought of Sansa being wed to that selfish little prick made Jon's stomach curdle like spoilt cream and left the bitterest of tastes in his mouth. He shook his head ...it was not his business, and he'd do well to remember that. His only concern need be Sansa's personal safety whilst she was under his protection for the time being. And keep her safe from harm, he would -his Uncle Ned would expect nothing less of him.

"Did you find her something to wear at least?" Jon asked, finally relinquishing the helm.

"Aye," Davos nodded. "Although I'm not sure the fit will be ... errr, _adequate_."

Jon didn't ask for an explanation, his lips twitched, pulling into a grim line. "And what of the other girl?" They'd arrived too late for her.

"Below deck, Captain. Cleaned and being wrapped in an old sail."

Jon nodded as he stomped down the staircase to the quarterdeck. He found Edd standing sentry at the door to his cabin, a small wooden box in his hand. Begrudgingly, Jon accepted it, raising his hand to knock on his _own_ cabin door, as Edd reminded him about the rum, sliding him a lopsided grin before slinking off to the main deck.

Moments passed and the door remained closed -no answer to his questioning knock requesting entrance. Tamping down his building frustration, Jon reached for the handle, steeling himself for whatever awaited him on the other side of the door. There was no love lost between he and his cousin, who had always regarded him as her lady mother had -like an outcast who _didn't_ belong. Leave it to a Stark woman to make him feel uncomfortable on his _own damn ship_. One more deep breath for clarity, and Jon shoved the door open.

Sansa stood huddled against the windows of his cabin, overlooking the ship's stern, Tormund's cloak pulled tightly against her. She was much taller than he remembered, yet looked so small and fragile in the pale light streaming through the glass, and Jon likened her to a cornered hare, poised to make a break for it. _It was wrong of course -she was a wolf, not a hare._

She turned her eyes upon him, and Jon was not prepared for the onslaught of emotions that tore through him as her blue gaze suddenly held him captive -his past, the family he'd left behind, the love he bore them- it all came crashing down onto his shoulders with the heavy weight of fate. He hadn't realized that he'd crossed the room until he was standing before her -close enough to touch and yet, he maintained his distance, his chest heaving with the simple effort it took to drag air into his deflated lungs.

He should say something, he knew it. Put her at ease, let her know she had nothing to fear from him or anyone on his ship. His mouth fell open to tell her ... and then his arms were sweeping around her trembling frame, as Sansa flung herself into his embrace.

Jon's eyes fell closed, his grip tightened, and the harsh words, the resentful glares, the petty squabbling of children -it _all_ fell away into nothingness, as Sansa curled around him, her nose nuzzling against the sensitive flesh of his ear. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, thrumming to the same tune of his own, as time seemed to suspend around them, and Jon wasn't entirely sure how long he stood holding Sansa in his arms, only that he was content to do so as long as she willed it.

"Can it be? Is it really you?" Her voice was soft, barely a whisper as it grazed the side of his jaw -Sansa finally pulling back to look upon his face. "I dreamt of you."

"Aye, it's me," Jon answered just as softly. "No dream, just flesh and bone."

Sansa lowered her eyes demurely, her lashes fanning the tops of her cheeks as she took the smallest of steps backwards -suddenly aware that her display of affection was most unladylike, yet unwilling to relinquish her hold just yet. Her abrupt movements had caused Tormund's cloak to slip open again, revealing the top of her crimson stained shift, and drawing Jon's eyes to the jagged cut Ramsay had inflicted upon her.

He felt a tightening in his chest, his anger building anew. "Did he- he didn't-" Jon struggled with the words, feeling like he was choking on his own tongue. _He had better not have!_

"No," Sansa gave a vigorous shake of her head, her long auburn hair tangled and unbound tumbled around the delicate oval of her face, enhancing the dark circles under her eyes -evidence that she was exhausted and likely hadn't slept in days.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief, as he reached to brush his knuckles across the dirt smudged high on her cheek -revealing the bruise that was still healing underneath. His nostrils flared in anger, his relief short-lived, "Sansa, what were you doing on that man's ship?"

"I was not there by choice," Sansa shot back, the she-wolf buried in her taking offense at his hostile tone. "I was on a merchant ship, headed for Braavos when he commandeered our vessel."

"A merchant ship? Sansa, what is going on? Why aren't you in Kings Landing, with your husband, the King?" Jon nearly gagged on the words.

"He is _not_ my husband!" The declaration all but tore from her lips in the most venomous of tones. Sansa lowered her eyes again, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth, as if she was unsure how much of her tale she should share. "I -I ran away."

"Sansa," Jon reached to gently chuck her under the chin, drawing her face upwards to meet his gaze. "We have to trust each other. I won't let anyone hurt you, _ever_ -and right now, you are in the safest possible place, but I need to know what's going on."

She dipped her head to nod her understanding, causing Jon's thumb to inadvertently brush against the fullness of her bottom lip. It was purely accidental _and_ yet -Jon took a cautious step backwards, pulling himself from her embrace, suddenly feeling the need to put some distance between them. He had _so many_ questions - _but first_ , tending her wound was of the utmost importance.

"Jon," her voiced called him back, even as her hand shot out to grab the sleeve of his shirt, her fingers curling in the fabric. "I have to get to Braavos."

"What is in Bravos, Sansa?"

"Our family. Mother, Arya, Bran, Rickon ...Robb has gone missing, and-"

"Your father?" _He was his father too._

Her pained expression spoke volumes even before the words tumbled from her lips like salt water in an open wound. "Father is dead." She could have hit him in the face, and it would have been kinder.

Jon released a shaky breath ...he'd known -in his heart of hearts, even when he denied the whispers, even when he pointed the prow of the Viserion towards the north, when he _should_ have been headed south - _he knew_. It did not make the news any easier.

He nodded, pulling from her grasp and dropped the box he was still holding onto the table in the center of the cabin, bracing its curved edges with whitened knuckles as he bowed his head to reign in his grief. "We will speak of this. _All of it_ ... after you've settled in." When he felt somewhat composed, Jon shoved away from the table to face her again, shifting the topic to the matter at hand. "You wouldn't let Edd treat your wound."

"I -I don't know him," She countered, a slight tremble in her voice, as she drew herself deeper into the folds of Tormund's cloak.

"I'd never send anyone in here that I didn't trust, Sansa. I don't know the first thing about mending a wound, I'd no sooner butcher your perfect skin."

"It has already been butchered," Sansa spoke low, her voice laced with shame -as if she somehow felt responsible for what that monster had done to her. It _almost_ made Jon wish Ramsay was still alive so he could kill him again.

"Perhaps you could just try?" She persisted. "I can help you ..."

"Have you ever mended a wound?" Jon asked -surprised at himself for even considering entertaining her proposal -he'd really just intended on convincing her to allow Edd to do it. _But_ , he hadn't the slightest idea what horrors she'd endured that left her so wary... _and dammit_ , but her Tully blue eyes were pleading for something that was within his power to grant her.

"No, but I've mended plenty of gowns. It can't be much different," she shrugged.

Jon had a feeling it was _plenty_ different. With a heavy sigh, he pulled out a chair for her and making the short walk to the small writing desk in the corner, retrieved his bottle of rum, tucking it under his arm, then divested his washing stand of the basin with fresh water and the clean slip of linen Edd had brought in. "It's to purge the wound," Jon explained when Sansa turned quizzical eyes at the bottle as he set it down on the table beside the basin.

Grabbing the adjacent chair, he dragged it closer to Sansa's and straddled it, flipping the wooden box open and cringed at the array of sewing needles and a few spools of thread. "This is your last chance for a reprieve," Jon warned her, uncorking the rum bottle.

To Jon's surprise, Sansa's hand shot out from the folds of Tormund's cloak to wrap slender fingers around the rum bottle, pulling it from his grasp. With a shaky hand, she brought the bottle to her lips and threw back a swig, then passed it back to him, gagging on the fiery liquid until her eyes watered. She cleared her throat, and with a very unladylike swipe of her sleeve across her mouth to collect the excess, Sansa opened the folds of her cloak and leaned forward in the chair. "I'm ready," she announced, her voice raspy from the liquor, her chin held high with a good show of bravado -but, for the slight quiver of her bottom lip.

Jon was envious -wishing he could douse his own anxiety as easily, but knew he needed steady hands for the task ahead. Instead, he blew out a shaky breath and reached for the linen, dipping it in the basin and wringing out the excess water, already planning to indulge himself heavily when all was said and done.

With his lips drawn in a thin line, Jon dabbed the cloth gently against her cut, concentrating on removing the dried clotted blood and dirt. _Dab, rinse, wring, dab, rinse, wring_ -Jon repeated the process, saying it silently to himself as he tried not to notice the water that escaped, spilling down between the valley of her breasts. _Seven hells, this was Sansa for the God's sakes_ -perhaps he'd been too long at sea without a woman...

When the wound was clean, and the water in the basin tinged a rusty red, Jon grabbed the rum bottle from the table - _again_ , considering throwing back a few gulps. "This is going to hurt," he warned, as he tilted the bottle and spilled some of the amber liquid over top her cut, just as he'd seen Edd do before.

Sansa hissed as the alcohol seeped between her torn flesh, and Jon instinctively dipped his head to blow gently at her angry wound -a pitiful attempt to soothe her discomfort when he was _ironically_ just moments away from pricking her skin with a needle. Sansa sucked in a sharp breath and looked away, focusing on the closed cabin door, as Jon cleared the lump from his throat and pulled himself upright again -unable to think of naught but how close in proximity his lips had been to her bare skin. _Why?_ He couldn't recall it being quite this awkward all the times Edd had sewn him up - _although_ , the fact that Edd was _not_ a beautiful woman was not lost on him ...

Shaking his head, Jon plucked a needle and spool from the box, and with clumsy fingers, attempted to thread the _blasted_ thing. Once, twice -again and again he failed, with each attempt more disastrous than the last, until he understood why Arya had always much preferred to take up arms instead of sit and sew with the other ladies of Winterfell Manor.

Truly, he felt quite the poor excuse for a sailor, as most wielded a sewing needle as well as they wielded their swords, considering the sails regularly required mending. He was about to give up when Sansa's hands closed around his, divesting him of the agitating tools before he tossed them across the cabin. Rending the thread from the spool with her teeth, she wet the end with her lips, and pushed it through the eye with an effortless practiced precision, knotting it before handing it back to him.

Jon murmured his thanks as his fingertips closed around the needle, marveling at her ability to remain so composed when he, _this mighty ship's Captain_ who had stood down men almost thrice his size, was going green in the gills and on the verge of bolting for the door -all over stitching up his cousin. _It was time to get a hold of himself_ -they had much to discuss if he could just get through this.

"Now pinch the skin lightly," Sansa instructed him -and Jon was thankful for the break in the otherwise deafening silence, as he leaned into her again, and did as she said, pinching the corner of her wound closed between his fingers.

It was not a steady go, as the soft tissue of her breast moved with the rise and fall of her chest -heaving now, despite the air of calmness she portrayed. "I -if you please?" Jon stammered his request, unsure he could get the words out past his molasses laden tongue, and hoped to _all seven_ that she understood what he was trying to convey.

A blush rising to stain her cheeks pink, Sansa obliged, cupping underneath the swell of her breast to hold it steady. "And pierce the skin, but not too close to the edge, or it might tear." Her voice had lost its edge of collectiveness, carrying a note of something else -he couldn't quite put a name to, and didn't ponder much on, in light of their _less-than-ideal_ situation.

Jon swallowed, feeling the heat radiate off the tips of his ears and knew they were glowing as brightly as her cheeks. Fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut tightly, he pushed the needle through to the other side -feeling the resistance as he punctured her delicate skin. Edd was _certainly_ a better man than he for doing this as needed on a regular basis.

Sansa released the smallest of whimpers, pursing her lips, but did not cry out. He paused a moment, allowing her to collect her bearings and waited for her next instruction.

"Now cross over to the other side," Sansa ground out between clenched teeth, anticipating the coming pain.

His tongue caught between his lips, and with the most gentlest of touches he could muster, Jon delved into his task, determined to keep his stitching tidy, disheartened that this would likely produce a scar to mar her lovely ivory skin. Six more stitches across and the wound was effectively closed, with Sansa remaining still and composed throughout.

The trembling in his hands had finally subsided, as Jon knotted the ends, then absentmindedly leaned closer to rend the thread with his teeth, as he'd witnessed Sansa do earlier. He felt her sharp intake of breath, and feeling his own lodge somewhere in his throat, Jon raised his eyes to find Sansa watching him, her pupils blown wide in the same confusion he suddenly felt roiling deep within his gut. A confusion he didn't have a name for ... a confusion that was palpable and unsettling.

A knock on the cabin door had Jon pulling back with such force, he nearly toppled off of his chair. "Aye, come in," he called, hating the way his voice cracked, as he dropped the needle and spool back inside the box and snapped the lid closed.

It was Davos, bearing a pewter tray of food from the galley, a gown draped about his shoulders. He bestowed Sansa with a warm smile as he laid the tray on the table in front of her. "M'lady," he nodded. "I hope you're partial to fish, as we eat _a lot_ of it."

"It's fine, thank you," Sansa responded politely, eyeing the gown he slung over another of the empty chairs as she immediately reached for the steaming bowl before her.

"Begging your pardon, but your build is quite different from Dany's, and she's about the only other lass who ever boards the Viserion. I hope the gown fits, as we've not much else to offer you."

"I'm sure it will be more than adequate," Sansa replied between sips.

Jon watched the exchange, wondering when she'd last had a decent meal, as she downed the fish stew with gusto, then moved onto the bread and ale. "I will sup with her after the burial," Jon said quietly, leaning close enough so only Davos could hear him. "Have the girl's body brought up from below deck. We will join you presently."

Davos nodded, grabbing the basin of dirty water from the table and handed it off to Gendry on his way out, to clean and refill, so Sansa could clean herself up. Jon waited for him to return with it before ushering him back out and leaving Sansa to dress in privacy.

"I'll be just outside the door," he reassured her when she turned soulful blue eyes on him, making him feel as if he were abandoning her. "Join us when you're through dressing, and we'll give your companion a proper send-off."

Jon hadn't realized how long he'd been tending to Sansa's wound until he stepped out on deck and saw that the sun was already making its path for the horizon. Perfect timing for a burial at sea, he thought to himself, bracing his palms flat on the railing and tilting his face into the wind. But the thought of burials brought his uncle front and center in his mind. The rumors had whispered that Ned Stark had died and now, Sansa had confirmed it -but not _how_. As far as Jon knew, his uncle was in damn near perfect health - _or had been_ when he'd last seen him five years ago.

Memories that had not plagued him in quite some time, were suddenly filling his head -memories that he'd long ago pushed to the far recesses of his mind, and for good reason, too. Of laying in bed that final night spent in Winterfell Manor, the sound of his aunt and uncle's voices carrying up from the parlor below. It was always the same argument for as long as he could remember -for as long as he could string two words together coherently as a child. The only discourse of their happy, loving marriage -what to do with the bastard nephew, the stain on their otherwise good family name. _Him._

The Starks were a proud family. A noble and dutiful family -of good breeding and upbringing, a shining example to all in their social circle. His mother Lyanna had been the exception, _of course_ -running off with a lowborn scoundrel two weeks before her sixteenth name day to avoid an arranged marriage - _and to the crowned prince of Westeros, no less_. An exhausting search for her led to the deaths of his grandfather and uncle Brandon -murdered at sea by a group of pirates who gave no quarter, and Jon couldn't help but wonder if that was where his aunt's dislike of him had originated from. Did he remind her of the woman who's selfish actions had robbed her of her first love?

Because, his mother _had_ eventually returned to Winterfell Manor -a year later - _alone_ , and her belly heavy with the likes of him. Jon knew his birth had been difficult, knew his mother had given her young life for his, but not before she had secured his place within her family -taking her older brother's oath to love and protect her son as if he were his own. And true to his word, Ned Stark had been a father to Jon in every aspect. Raising him along with his own children, who had always treated him more as a brother than a cousin - _all except Sansa of course_ , a proper lady, and the embodiment of her mother whom she idolized.

His aunt Catelyn hadn't necessarily been cruel, she just never let Jon forget his place in the families social structure. He'd received the same education, training and fine clothing as all the Stark children, but not their last name. He was a Snow - _a labeled bastard_ , and therefore, he was not permitted to partake in social events with the rest of his family. Always excluded when it came to things such as attending court, or entertaining important guests of high social stature at the manor -and it wasn't as if social frivolities appealed to Jon ...in fact, they'd mattered very little. All he had _ever wanted_ was to be _one of them_ \- _to be a fucking Stark_ -to share that bond with the rest of his family and not be made to feel like he was always outside looking in. And so, because he loved them all dearly, he endured, suffering silently.

But _that_ fateful night, Jon had received a snub he couldn't forgive - _and after he'd worked up the courage to do it for so long_. So after a sleepless night of listening to them argue _yet again_ , Jon had made the decision to leave Winterfell Manor, to make his own way in the world. Come the morning, he'd said his tearful goodbyes and headed for the sea, heeding it's call, and never looked back. Perhaps he was like his mother in that aspect ... _perhaps_ it was in his blood.

Taking a job upon a merchant ship, he'd kept in contact with his uncle, communicating through messages left at White Harbor with the harbormaster. But over the years, and the farther out to sea Jon went, the fewer the messages became -and when he'd joined the brotherhood, and his stops to White Harbor became even more infrequent, the messages became almost nonexistent.

It was his own fault, and through his own neglect. So when he'd dropped anchor in White Harbor a few moths back, he was _surprised_ to find a letter from his uncle -and even more so, when he'd read the cryptic words scrawled out on the parchment. Something was amiss ... He _should_ have stayed -should have left the Viserion docked and made swiftly for Winterfell Manor, but he _hadn't_ , and now, he'd never forgive himself.

Jon was grateful for the interruption of his self-loathing, as the door to his cabin clicked open, and Sansa stepped out on deck. Her face was scrubbed clean, making the bruise marring her cheek stand out against the pale alabaster of her skin, but the sun at her back cast its rays upon her, and set her red hair ablaze like a glowing fiery halo, pooling around her shoulders in waves of burnished copper.

One could never refute that Sansa Stark was anything but radiant. She was lovely as a child, and even more so now. Maturity had sharpened the lines of her face and put a wariness in her eyes, but even _that_ could not squelch her ethereal beauty.

Dany's gown clung to her curves in a most becoming, yet inappropriate way, accentuating their height difference with Sansa's long limbs peeping out from the hem, showcasing her torn slippers. The bodice was cut in a less than modest fashion, dipping almost to her waist, so Jon was glad that she'd decided to once again make use of Tormund's cloak. He'd have to find something more suitable for her to wear -he trusted his crew implicitly, _but dammit_ , they all had eyes, and were only human, after all.

Her blue eyes wide as a doe, she accepted the arm he offered while taking in her surroundings, as Jon led her down to the main deck where his crew was waiting patiently for them. Her companion's body had been carefully wrapped in an old sail, bound with rope and laid out on a plank, and as they moved closer, two deckhands hoisted the plank up so Sansa could pay her final respects.

"This is very kind of you," Sansa's voice was quiet, as it carried to his ears on the breeze.

"Were you close?" Jon asked her, as she ran her fingers lightly across the canvas.

"I barely knew her, but she risked everything to help me escape, and it is through my folly that her life was forfeit."

"How so?" Jon asked, his list of questions building as the day wore on.

"Because I took her dagger ... I disarmed her to protect myself, and then when I was fighting Ramsay, I lost it in the scuffle. If I hadn't taken it, perhaps we would both be standing here now ..."

"Or perhaps neither of you would be,"Jon fought to keep his voice even, as the rage boiled up inside of him again. "You dishonor her memory. Don't diminish the sacrifice she made by thinking that way," he explained when she cast sorrowful eyes at him.

With a nod of his head, the deckhands hoisted the plank up over the ship's railing and released Shae's body to the sea, the ocean reaching up to swallow the setting sun as her body slipped below the waves. Behind them, the crew quietly dissipated, slinking off to their own respective duties until only he and Sansa remained.

Releasing a heavy sigh to the wind, Jon reached into the pocket of his breeches and withdrew the folded piece of parchment that hadn't left his person since the day he'd received it, and carefully placed it in the palm of Sansa's hand.

"What is it?" She asked, as her hand closed around it, her fingertips brushing lightly against his.

"I was hoping _you_ could tell me, Sansa."

* * *

 **A/N: So, I've not much to add here. I struggled a bit with this chapter, and creating a balance between a familial tie and a budding attraction, and hope I found the right formula. I made a few additions to My Handy Pirate Glossary (below) -in case a word or phrase confused you! Thanks for tuning in and see you next week!**

* * *

 **Handy Pirate Glossary:**

 _Boom_ \- A horizontal pole along the bottom edge of a mast to which the mast is fastened.

 _Booty_ \- Treasure.

 _Bow_ \- The front of a ship.

 _Broadside_ \- A general term for the vantage on another ship of absolute perpendicular to the direction it is going. To get along broadside a ship was to take it at a very vulnerable angle. This is of course, the largest dimension of a ship and is easiest to attack with larger arms. A "Broadside" has come to indicate a hit with a cannon or similar attack right in the main part of the ship.

 _Coffer_ \- A chest in which treasure is usually kept.

 _Colors_ \- Flags hoisted, identifying the ship/pirate's origin. **  
**

_Come about_ \- To bring the ship full way around in the wind. Used in general while sailing into the wind, but also used to indicate a swing back into the enemy in combat.

 _Cutlass_ \- A short, heavy sword with a curved blade used by pirates and sailors. The sword has only one cutting edge and may or may not have a useful point. **  
**

_Deckhand(s)_ \- A member of a ship's crew whose duties mostly included maintenance of the ship.

 _Gangplank_ \- A board or ramp used as a removable footway between a ship and a pier. Or between ships.

 _Gangway_ \- 1. A passage along either side of a ships upper deck. 2. A gangplank. 3. An interjection used to clear a passage through a crowded area.

 _(To)Give no quarter_ \- The refusal to spare lives. Pirates raise a red flag to threaten no quarter will be given.

 _Helm_ \- The steering wheel of a ship which controls the rudder.

 _Hold/Holdings_ \- A large area for storing cargo in the lower part of a ship. And -the cargo stored wherein.

 _Hoist the/the hoisting of colors_ \- The action of hoisting a pirate's identifying flag. Or, a call to arms in battle.

 _Hull_ \- The body of a ship.

 _Starboard_ \- The right side of the ship when you are facing toward her prow (opposite of port).

 _Prow_ \- The forwardmost area of the ship. Or the bow. **  
**

_Stern_ -The rear part of a ship. **  
**

 _Strike (the) colors -_ To lower, specifically a ship's flag as a signal of surrender. **  
**

 _Tankard_ \- A cylindrical, single-handled drinking mug, usually made of pewter. During the 18th century, pewter often contained traces of lead, causing lead poisoning or gout.

 _Quarter_ \- Derived from the idea of "shelter", quarter is given when mercy is offered by pirates. Quarter is often the prize given to an honorable loser in a pirate fight. See also _Give no quarter_ above.

 _Quarterdeck_ \- The after part of the upper deck of a ship.

 _Quartermaster_ \- The highest ranking pirate on a ship under the captain, usually elected by the crew. The quartermaster was the only officer on a ship who could veto a captain's decision, but only when the ship was not engaged in battle or on a mission. **  
**

 _Rudder_ \- A flat piece of wood at the stern of a ship that dips into the water and is used for steering. The rudder is controlled at the helm. **  
**

 _Run a shot across the bow_ \- A command to fire a warning shot. Or describing said shot.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 -Following The Stream Up North, Where Do People Like Us Float**

Memory comes when memory's old,

I am never the first to know.

 _Following the stream up North ..._

 _Where do people like us float?_

-Fever Ray, Keep the Streets Empty for Me

* * *

If such a thing were possible, her eyes had become an even more striking hue of blue— _a blue to rival the deepest of waters_ , Jon thought, as Sansa unfolded the parchment slowly, with swollen bruised knuckles. Her hands trembling ever so slightly—his own tingling where their fingers had touched.

"Jon, what is this?" Sansa's eyes skimmed over the message printed on the rumpled scroll, her forehead creasing slightly as she clutched at her heart, and finally, her gaze sought his. "You are sure this is from father?"

He nodded his confirmation, watching as her eyes drifted over the parchment again and again, tears beginning to well up in their corners.

"When?" Sansa quickly swiped away at the them, pulling her reserve around her once more, as easily as she adjusted Tormund's cloak more firmly on her delicate shoulders. She was accustomed to hiding her true feelings, unaware such pretense was unnecessary with him—the notion pained him. What seven hells had befallen her in the years that separated them?

"I cannot say for certain how long it sat in White Harbor ..." Jon swallowed, feeling the guilt rise up in his throat like bile. _He would not lie to her._ "I've had it in my possession for some time, and I —" He struggled to find the words and failed miserably. "Sansa, I know I should have ..."

The blue in her eyes softened, pale jewels—open and shut. "It's not your fault, Jon. If this message is truly from father, then it would seem that he knew he was ..."

She let the sentence drop, but Jon knew what her unspoken words implied—the same thoughts he himself had upon reading his uncle's cryptic message. Ned Stark had _known_ death was coming for him. Had known and set out to warn Jon about it. _But why him?_

"But what are these series of numbers?"

"I'm still working on that part," Jon admitted, taking the parchment from her grasp and giving it another look.

 _The dead tell no tales._

 _54368321_

 _5581312_

 _Ned_

He'd read them so many times, he ought to have them memorized by now. _What could they possibly be?_

High up in the masts, the crew was busy furling the Viserion's sails for the night—to keep her from drifting too far off-course when unmanned. The ship listed slightly, and Sansa stumbled against him, her cloak slipping once more, reminding Jon he'd need to find her something more suitable to wear as he was privy to a generous amount of naked skin, barely encased in the flimsy wisps of silk that Dany considered a gown.

Jon forced down his anger yet again, ignoring her mended wound that continued peeping out to taunt him, and offered her a smile. "You haven't acquired your sea legs yet," his hands steadied her as he drew the folds of the cloak over her bosom.

"It would appear so," Sansa returned the smile, hooded lashes fluttering over flushed cheeks, as she clutched at Jon's arm. "Are we still very far from Braavos? Perhaps I would have acquired them by then?"

Jon stuffed the parchment back into the pocket of his breeches and tucked Sansa's arm protectively through his. "Come," he bid her, moving back towards the quarterdeck and the confines of his cabin where they could speak in private. They had much to discuss, and he wasn't sure how his cousin would take to the news that they were already traveling in the opposite direction of Braavos—had been since he'd disabled the Dread ship hours ago.

By the time they'd returned to his cabin, all the lanterns had been lit and the table in the center of the room was set with their evening meal. More fish stew and bread, as well as some fruit they'd picked up in Dorne. There was even a carafe of Dornish wine for Sansa—Gendry or perhaps Davos had known it would be easier on her stomach than the swill they were all accustomed to drinking at sea.

Jon shut the door behind them, and rolling up the sleeves of his burgundy shirt, moved straight to the washing stand. "Please sit. Eat," he called over his shoulder, splashing some water on his face. Quickly sweeping his hair back, he secured his unruly curls with a strip of leather, then washed off his hands before joining Sansa, who had taken a seat, but despite his request, waited patiently for him without touching a drop of food.

Tugging out his chair, Jon took the seat opposite of her, reaching for the wine carafe to fill her tankard and wished that she wasn't so wary of him, as he noted that Sansa's eyes followed his every move. She thanked him, reaching for her cup and sipping gingerly, as Jon took a generous swallow of his own ale—remembering the earlier promise he made to himself to indulge heartily, though the rum bottle remained untouched at the center of the table where he'd left it. Perhaps that was for the best.

There was an air of tension in the room—it coiled around the two of them, thick and dense as a creeping fog, as Jon finally reached for his bowl and brought it to his lips. He was used to eating in the galley with his crew, and everything about the atmosphere seemed oddly intimate. It was unsettling, and the silence crackling between them only seemed to fuel the puzzling awkwardness he felt in Sansa's presence.

 _Say something you fool_ , Jon belittled himself, as he set his bowl back down, its contents now emptied. He watched intently as Sansa dug into her own bowl of stew, the light from the candles playing upon the golden highlights of her hair, the hot broth warming her cheeks to a soft pink glow. The questions in his mind had not abated, but he hadn't the heart to disturb the meal she attacked with such gusto—and again, he wondered how long she'd gone without food in her belly.

Jon reached for the bread—if for nothing other than to have something to do with his idle hands. He broke the small loaf in two, offering half to Sansa, which she accepted with a courteous nod. "It's surely nothing like you're used to—"

"No, it's delicious. Truly." Sansa tore off a small piece and dipped it in her stew before popping it into her smiling mouth. "It reminds me of home. Do you remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?"

Jon laughed. "The ones with the peas and onions?"

Sansa nodded, her smile not quite reaching her eyes before it already began to fade. "We should have never left."

Jon's smile faded too. "I didn't have a choice, Sansa. I wanted to make something of myself, and I was never going to get anywhere in life being nothing more than the bastard embarrassment of the Starks." He hated the bitterness that crept into his voice— _almost_ as much as the pain that flashed in her eyes at his statement.

Sansa set the bread down, her hands falling into her lap beneath the table's edge, and Jon didn't have to see them to know she was fiddling her fingers; a nervous habit she'd had since childhood. "I spent a lot of time over the years thinking about what an ass I was to you. You didn't deserve it. I wish I could change everything ... that I could take it all back somehow ..."

"We were children," Jon's tone softened, now feeling every bit the ass, himself.

"You're being kind. I was awful, just admit it," her lashes fluttered against the flush of her cheeks as Sansa's smile returned.

Jon chuckled softly and looked away, feeling a sudden warmth creep into his face and travel straight up to the tips of his ears. "Alright," he conceded with a sheepish grin. "You were _occasionally_ awful."

"Can you forgive me?"

Jon shook his head. "There's nothing to forgive—"

"Forgive me," Sansa's tone had lost its playful edge as she leaned forward, her arm snaking across the table caught Jon by surprise, as she laced her hand within his own.

Jon's lungs felt suddenly deflated as the intense blue of her eyes flickering in the candlelight held him captive, and he _felt_ in that instant that the spoiled little girl he remembered from childhood was no more. His thumb brushed against the back of her hand of its own volition, as Jon reminded himself to breathe. "I forgive you Sansa," he managed to croak out past the lump that had formed in his throat.

The stifling tension grew thicker still—almost palpable, and Jon was certain Sansa felt it too, as she suddenly jerked her hand back as if she'd been burnt by the mere touch of his skin, knocking over her tankard of wine in the process. She shrieked, as the crimson liquid spilled into her lap, the legs of her chair scraping against the wooden planks of the floor as she shot up from the table. The chair clattered to the ground behind her with a loud _bang_ , and Sansa whirled around, her legs tangling up in the folds of Tormund's cloak, tugging it open, as it tripped her up.

Jon lunged from his own chair, grunting in pain as his hip slammed into the side of the table, sending it skidding sideways, dishes clanging, as he dove to catch Sansa before she hit the floor. His arms folding around her, Jon managed to maneuver himself beneath her, just as his body connected with the hard planks below, taking all the impact, the breath rushing from his lungs in a painful _whoosh_ —but he succeeded in cushioning her fall.

"Seven hells," Jon groaned, his hip and the back of his head throbbing, as his eyelids fluttered open, his blurred gaze slowly focusing on the fullness of the pair of lips just scant inches from his own mouth—so close, he could taste her breath.

"Jon, I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" Sansa's brow was furrowed in concern.

Jon blinked and blinked again, increasingly aware of the soft, supple body pressed intimately against every inch of him. "Aye," he somehow managed to ground out, ashamed at the husky sound of his voice ringing in his own ears. _Yes, he had definitely been at sea far too long without a woman—there was no other explanation_. Fortunately, they were headed for the Summer Isles where that could easily be rectified.

Sansa inhaled sharply, as if suddenly realizing their compromising position herself. She scrambled to roll herself off of him, just as the cabin door burst open, and a handful of his crew crowded in the doorway, their faces a mixture of worry and now, avid curiosity.

"Bloody hell, Jon!" Davos barked. "Is everything okay? It sounds like a rowdy alehouse in here!"

"Seven hells," Jon groaned again, knowing _exactly_ what this must look like to his crew, as a panicked Sansa scrambled to free herself from the confining folds of Tormund's cloak—now tangled around him too, binding them together. Her cheeks flaming seven sinful shades of red, she desperately tried to stop the creamy flesh of her bosom from spilling out of the top of Dany's ill-fitting dress, but her struggling only exacerbated the problem.

"If you please?" Jon growled over his shoulder at them, his grip on Sansa tightening, as he drew her down onto his chest to hide her exposed skin from the group of eyes all focused on the pair of them tangled up together on the cabin floor. _Tongues would most certainly be wagging tomorrow ..._

Realizing Jon's intentions, Sansa finally stopped fidgeting and instead, buried her flushed face in the front of his burgundy shirt. With a shake of his head, Davos turned to usher the men back out the door, tossing Jon a wry look before slamming it shut behind him.

Jon blew out an exasperated breath and let his arms go slack—but against his better judgement, did not remove them from around her. "Are you alright?"

Sansa raised her head, her cheeks tinged pink, the flush creeping down her throat and dipping between the valley of her breasts—where Jon was doing his damnedest _not_ to look. "Other than being utterly mortified, I think so. You?"

His hip was still throbbing, but the indecent stirring in his groin is what finally prompted Jon to move. Her question going unanswered, he rolled over, flipping Sansa beneath him—her sharp intake of breath and the surge of heat deep in his belly, indicating that he might have just made things far more worse. Ashamed and impatient to put some much needed distance between them, Jon's hands fumbled as he plucked open Tormund's cloak—cringing when a shocked Sansa's pupils blew wider, he quickly disengaged himself from the blasted folds of cloth and jerked himself to his feet.

"I've been better," he finally answered—when he felt he could trust the sound of his voice again. _Still_ , it came out strained, angry even. Offering her his slightly trembling hands, he hoisted her up from the hard floor, avoiding her wide doe eyes, while his gut roiled with shame at his own traitorous body.

"Please forgive my foolish clumsiness," Sansa's voice shook as she admonished herself, swiping at the stained silk of her borrowed gown. "Look what I've done."

Ignoring the stabbing pain in his hip, Jon moved to the trunk at the foot of his bunk and took a knee, lifting the lid and digging for something suitable for Sansa to wear, certain that Davos had brought her the least revealing of Dany's gowns—if not the _only_ one. He hadn't exactly been keeping an inventory of what Dany left behind on the ship. Settling on a pair of worn breeches and a soft cream shirt that laced up in the front, Jon dropped the lid on the trunk and stood, muttering a string of curses at the biting pain that shot through his side as he straightened to his full height. He turned to regard Sansa who had righted her fallen tankard and already begun plucking up the spilled food and wiping up the table top.

"Sansa, you've no need to do that," Jon reached to stop her, his arm outstretched with the offering of clean, dry clothing— _completely_ taken aback when she flinched, and threw her hands up to shield her face, as if she thought he aimed to strike her.

"Sansa, I — " Jon was at a loss for words, as he dropped his hand and took a step backwards. The bruise high on her cheek seemed to glare at him in the fire's light—yellow and brown—and _old_. He pushed an agitated hand through the curls that had escaped the leather that bound his hair, a sick feeling dropping to the deepest pit of his stomach. "That's not from Ramsay is it?"

Sansa shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes, her voice was the faintest of whispers that just barely reached his ears. "No, it isn't."

Jon blew out a ragged breath, his skin suddenly feeling as though it were on fire from the burning rage he forced himself to keep at bay—lest he frighten her more. "Who?" He ground out between clenched teeth. "Joffrey?"

Sansa could only nod, a muscle working in her jaw. Jon knew she was doing her damndest to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. Her pain, her bravery—they clutched at him with gnarled fingers, enticing him to move in closer when he knew he should maintain his distance for her sake. Dropping the clean clothing to the overturned chair, he closed the space that separated them, unable to contain the overwhelmingly fierce urge to protect her—to show her she was safe with him. That she would _always_ be safe with him.

"Hear this now," his fingers curling loosely around the soft exposed skin of her upper arms, Jon shook her gently, until she raised her chin and met his eyes. "I won't let _anyone_ hurt you _ever_ again. Do you understand? I'll protect you, I promise."

Sansa went limp in his arms, a sob tearing from her throat as she finally gave herself over to the grief she'd been internalizing, and let the tears fall. As if a dam had been broken, she laid herself bare before him, her voice shaky, as a stream of words spilled from her lips—of a stupid little girl, a loveless betrothal, the cruelness and isolation she suffered at the hands of the Lannisters since King Roberts' passing, and the plot between her mother and Petyr Baelish to whisk her away to Essos after Ned's untimely death.

"Baelish?" Jon asked, his thumb swiping at her tear streaked cheeks. He didn't know the man personally — only brief encounters in his youth when he'd visited Winterfell Manor, but there was always something about the man that rubbed Jon the wrong way. Mainly the indecent way he leered at Sansa's mother when he thought no one was watching.

"Yes... If not for him, I'd have never gotten out of Kings Landing. And Shae," Sansa sniffed, dragging the back of her hand across her dampened cheeks. "Mother said I could trust him. That he is like a brother to her."

Jon only nodded, thankful that the man was leagues away, no matter what he had _or_ hadn't done. If the harsh years at sea had taught him anything, it was to trust his gut instincts— _and_ his gut told him Petyr Baelish didn't do _anything_ out of the kindness of his heart.

"And if not for you ..." Sansa shook her head and swayed on her feet—she looked thoroughly exhausted. "Thank you, Jon. For everything."

"Thanks aren't necessary," Jon brushed it off, knowing that she might not feel as grateful when she learned that they weren't headed immediately for Braavos. "We are family," he added—unsure _why_ he felt the need to do so. Stepping back, he bent and scooped up the clean clothing, righting her fallen chair before pressing them into her open arms. "You should change, get some rest. We can talk more in the morning. I'll step out and give you some privacy."

"Please stop allowing me to chase you from your own cabin, there's no need for you to leave," Sansa was already slipping behind the wooden dressing screen near his bunk—a long ago gift from a Dornish pirate that before today had only sat around collecting dust. It was a good thing he hadn't given it to Daenerys, as he'd intended to.

The sounds of swishing silk filled the space, and Jon's face began to burn as his eyes skirted around the room for something to focus on— _anywhere other than_ the dressing partition in the corner, where glimpses of creamy flesh peeped out at him between the intricate carvings that decorated the screen. Turning swiftly on his heel, Jon dragged the table back where it belonged, it's legs scraping against the wooden planks below momentarily distracting him from the torturous sounds of Sansa disrobing just a few steps away.

 _Seven hells, he was behaving like a cad!_ This was his cousin—the daughter of his beloved uncle, his _own_ blood.

More rustling of silk had Jon finally reaching for the rum bottle—now laying on its side. With shaking hands, he scooped it up from the table top, twisted the cork, and brought the bottle to his lips, taking a hearty swig. Reveling in the feel of the fiery liquid as it burned a path straight to his knotted stomach, he took another gulp, then another, before slamming the bottle down on the table harder than necessary. Feeling ridiculously no more than a green boy, Jon looked for a means of escape—but there was none to be found, as the lantern's light painted Sansa's silhouette against the back wall of his cabin.

His breath leaving his lungs in an audible _whoosh_ , Jon shut his eyes and gripped the back of the chair in front of him until his knuckles were white with strain—but the image was already burned into his brain. _It was too much_. He needed some air, some space—some time to wrap his head around what the hell was going on with his addled brain.

"Make yourself comfortable, Sansa," he called over his shoulder as he snatched up the rum bottle and made a beeline for the cabin door. "The bunk is yours, I'll see you in the morning." It was _certainly_ going to be a long night for him.

Without giving her a chance to respond, Jon shoved through the door and collapsed upon the other side of it—instantly regretting his decision as he spotted Tormund a few feet away, leaning over the ship's railing.

"You're not finished already are you? That poor girl." He shook his head at Jon, a smug smile curving his lips. "Did she toss you out on your arse? Aemon the Dragon and his pitiful pecker!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 - I Sailed My Ship Of Safety 'Til I Sank It, I'm Crawling On Your Shores**

Well darkness has a hunger that's insatiable,

And lightness has a call that's hard to hear.

I wrap my fear around me like a blanket,

 _I sailed my ship of safety 'til I sank it,_

 _I'm crawling on your shores…_

\- Indigo Girls, Closer I Am to Fine

* * *

Jon dropped his head back against the door, then shoved away from it, his heavy sigh carrying with the waves to Tormund's ears.

"You've got some kind of fascination with my…" He paused, his cheeks tinged pink, as he sheepishly tested the word on his lips, " _pecker_?"

Tormund threw back his head and laughed. "Guess I can't expect that you know how to use it, if you can't even say it!"

"I know how to use it." Jon narrowed his eyes and uncorked the rum, taking a hearty swig as he joined his friend—despite his better judgement. "Don't you have work to do or something?"

"I have nothing to do but enjoy the view and get drunk on rum until the sun comes up." Tormund waved his hand at the night sky for emphasis. "And apparently, I'm also a poet."

Jon snorted as he leaned his elbows against the railing. "You have no rum."

"Aye—" Tormund nodded and snagged the bottle from Jon's hand "—but you do."

He tilted it in a quick salute before throwing back a generous gulp. "So what's the story with this girl?"

Jon sighed, unsure of how much he should share with his crew about Sansa. But Tormund wasn't just a member of the Viserion's crew. Like Davos, he was also one of Jon's closest confidants—though they hadn't exactly started out that way. Clearly he had sensed that there was much more than met the eye.

They were silent for a spell, passing the rum bottle back and forth between them, and listening to the creaks and groans of the ship as she sliced through the ocean's waves unmanned. Jon took another swig, rolled the tangy liquid around in his mouth before swallowing, and sucked in a deep breath.

"Sansa, she's my cousin. The daughter of the man who raised me. The one I suspected was dead…" Jon paused, his heart feeling as though it were being squeezed inside his chest. "He _is_ dead. And she's asked me to take her to Braavos."

"But we're not sailing towards Braavos," Tormund said matter-of-factly. "We're sailing in quite the opposite direction, actually."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. I _am_ the captain, remember?"

Tormund reached for the bottle, a grin peeking out from his scruffy red beard. "Is that why you're always prancing around here like a peacock, issuing orders when you aren't brooding up at the helm?"

"Oh, you noticed, did you?" Jon relinquished his hold on the bottle.

"Hard not to." He shrugged and took a swig. "So what's in Braavos?"

"Apparently that's where my aunt has fled with my other cousins."

" _Fled?_ " Tormund quirked a bushy brow.

 _Damn_. The rum was making his tongue loose. He certainly wasn't planning to share that the lovely intended consort of the king of Westeros was just a stone's throw away, curled up in his bunk… and wearing his clothing. _At least, not yet._

"Did I say fled?" Jon grabbed for the bottle and quickly brought it to his lips, buying himself another few seconds to muster up a decent excuse for his slip.

"Aye, you did. And you're a lousy liar, Jon Snow. So when do you plan on telling the pretty lady in there that you're taking her to the Summer Isles instead?"

Jon released the breath he was holding, thankful that Tormund wasn't going to push the issue— _yet_. "I don't know. I have every intention of eventually taking her to Braavos, but we need to dock, empty the cargo…"

"And check in with The Mother of Dragons," Tormund finished for him.

"Yes."

"It's a good call. The lads are getting restless too, itching to crack Jenny's teacup. We don't all get to share our beds with beautiful, flame-haired women." He indicated the door to Jon's cabin with a nod.

"I'm not sharing my bed—well, I am, but—" Jon knew he was going red in the face again as he stumbled over his words like an oaf. "I'm out here, aren't I?"

Tormund just continued on with his shit-eating grin, enjoying every moment of Jon's squirming. "For now."

"She's my cousin."

Tormund snorted. "Is that all?"

"That's not enough?" He knew he must be close to drunk to still be entertaining this ridiculous conversation.

"Not where I come from." Tormund shrugged nonchalantly, then helped himself to another generous gulp of rum.

And for whatever reason, Jon burst out laughing, as he turned and slid down the rail of the Viserion, melting into a pile of bones on the hard deck. "That's comforting."

Tormund laughed too, his barking guffaws carrying up into the masts, as he plopped down unceremoniously beside him, and passed over the rum. And so it went, until the the bottle was drained, and Jon felt confident that he was thoroughly sloshed enough to try and get some sleep. Surely enough time had passed, and Sansa was likely sleeping by now? At least, he hoped so.

Tormund was effectively sloshed too, and apparently had decided he was comfortable enough where he was as, without preamble, he leaned his head back against the rail and closed his eyes. Within minutes he was snoring like a giant ginger bear, and any thoughts Jon had about catching some shut-eye here quickly fled.

Unsuccessful in his attempt to haul himself up off the deck—not once, but three times (or maybe it was four)—Jon tossed his dignity to the waves and crawled to his cabin door on all fours. No one was here but he, Tormund, and the crew member way, way up in the crow's nest who was supposed to be on lookout— _had better be on lookout_ —and not spying on his captain who was thoroughly loaded to gunwall. Using the latch to pull himself up, he shoved open the door and stumbled inside, kicking it closed behind him.

Sansa was curled up on her side, fast asleep, his blanket tucked up to her chin and her glorious mane of red hair fanned out around her like a halo of fire. She'd turned down all the lanterns but one, and as Jon doused it, he wondered if she left it burning because she thought he'd return, or because she didn't want to be in darkness. Either scenario made his heart clench.

Dropping down on the floor beside the bed, Jon tugged off his boots. He'd certainly slept in far worst conditions, he thought dryly—and truthfully, he was too drunk to care. Shrugging out of his shirt, he rolled it into a ball to serve as a makeshift pillow, and was fast asleep before his head even hit the ground.

* * *

The sound of a whimper split the silence of the cabin—soft and breathy, and for a moment, Jon wondered if he'd just imagined it. His head felt heavy as an anchor, and his eyelids almost twice that as he forced them open. The room was dark but for the moonlight, and the ship quiet, with only the sounds of the waves lapping at her hull as she bobbed against the surface of the ocean. He _knew_ he hadn't been sleeping long.

Sparing a glance at his bed, he saw that Sansa was still asleep. Her face wasn't visible to him from this angle, but he could see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

Perhaps he had just dreamt it, Jon thought, as he fluffed his flattened shirt, and wondered why the hell he'd bothered when it deflated under him the minute he laid his head back down. Willing his body to relax, his eyes fluttered closed, and then— _there it was again._

It _was_ Sansa.

Jon sat up, clambering to his knees, and peered over the side of the bed at her face. At first glance, she looked peaceful… and then in a flash, her face contorted in pain as she whimpered low and soft, her body moving restlessly under the blanket. And then, in the next instant, she was peaceful once again.

Jon scrubbed his hand over his face vigorously, unsure what to do. Clearly, she was having a nightmare, and every protective instinct he had rushed to the fore and told him to wake her, end her suffering. On the other hand, Jon didn't want to frighten her. She was in a strange place and he'd only just begun to understand the hell she'd suffered at the hands of just about everyone who had her in their clutches over the years.

Fortunately, the choice was taken from him, as Sansa suddenly bolted upright in the bunk, shrieking into the silent cabin. Her arms shot out, reaching blindly in the darkness, as if she were searching for something.

"Shhh, Sansa it's alright," Jon whispered, as he rolled up from the floor and perched himself on the side of the bunk. "It was only a dream. Shhhh."

Tentatively, he reached for her— _slowly_ , as one might approach a wounded animal.

"Jon?" Sansa croaked out his name, and in the next instant, she was coiled around him—hesitating for only a second when she collided with the naked wall of his chest.

"Yes, I'm here," Jon cooed, his arms automatically folding around her, his hands smoothing her hair. He held tightly to her, whispering assurances, until her trembling ceased. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, certain he already knew her answer.

"No." She shook her head, her lips brushing against the skin at his throat where her face was tucked. "The lamp, I left the lamp burning…"

Jon cringed at her words, feeling the sharp pang of guilt tearing at his insides. "I doused it when I came in. I'm sorry, Sansa." He loosened his hold and shifted towards the edge of the bed. "I'll light it for you."

"No!" Her grip on him tightened, her voice squeaking with a sense of urgency. "Can you just—can you just stay with me until I fall back to sleep?"

It was an innocent enough request, and yet Jon's body grew suddenly taut with tension. "Okay," he relented with a shuddering breath, even as every bit of sense he had left in his addled brain screamed _no_.

Releasing her from the circle of his arms, Jon waited patiently for Sansa to settle comfortably back onto the bunk before easing himself down beside her—remaining atop the blanket. Unsure what to do, he went still as Sansa tucked herself into his side. But even as the tension in his body hummed, he could feel hers ebb as she relaxed completely in his arms, one soft hand pressed over his thudding heart.

Her warm breath fanning his face, Jon willed himself to relax, as his hand settled apprehensively on her shoulder. He wasn't entirely sure how long he laid there listening to Sansa breathing, only that eventually his heart slowed to a steady beat, and his hand slid down her arm as his eyelids fluttered closed.

* * *

Jon sighed, not quite ready to open his eyes and surrender to the pounding headache that surely awaited him. He couldn't quite remember a time his bunk felt more damn comfortable than this particular moment. And warm—so _deliciously_ warm.

He delved deeper into that warmth, his face burrowing in silken strands of hair that smelled sweet as a summer breeze, as the source of that delicious heat sighed softly and pressed deeper into his touch—a delectable round bottom flush with his thighs.

 _Ah, but they were far from the shores of the Summer Isles still, therefore he must be dreaming._

Instinctively, his hips pushed back, his aching need pressing insistently against the restrictive barrier of his breeches. Another soft sigh tickled his ears in reply, as that supple roundness settled closer still, and a low groan rumbled its way up his throat.

Jon's hand slid under the blanket, skimming over the delightful splendor buried beneath, his hands connecting with a valley of curves—searching, _craving_ for the feel of soft flesh. His hand traveled lower, bunching up the cloth denying him the treasure he so desperately sought, until his fingertips finally brushed against the silken skin he hungered for. His hand caressed her stomach, his thumb smoothing a circle around her navel.

Another breathy sigh—it spilled from her lips like sweet honey, as those hips moved against him maddeningly, undulating in a lazy circle, until Jon thought he might weep from wanting her. It was _wrong_ , and he was depraved, he _knew_ it—but the veil of his dreams provided him the perfect sanctuary for his deviant thoughts.

"Sansa," he breathed her name into the curtain of her hair, his hand sweeping up the length of her stomach, as it quivered beneath his touch.

And then a moan—full of fervor.

Jon's eyes flew open, suddenly aware of what he was doing, his hand stopping just below the swell of her breast. Frozen with fear, he grappled with how to remove his hand—though admittedly, he'd sooner cut it off than divest himself from the soft skin that rested beneath his calloused palm.

 _Seven hells, the devil take him!_ Sansa had asked him to hold her until she settled— _hold her_ , not molest her while she slept like he was some despicable scurvy dog, because he suddenly couldn't suppress his burgeoning desire for the daughter of the man who raised him!

Full of shame, Jon inched his hips backwards, away from the tempting swell of her ass and the beckoning warmth seeping from her body. To his dismay— _probably_ —her hips followed suit, a whimper teasing his ears as her supple bottom chased him nearly to the edge of the bunk. What's worst, his hand was still trapped under her shirt, and while Jon was doing his _damnedest_ to reclaim his gentlemanly stature and hold fast to the last vestiges of his honor, Sansa's own hand suddenly covered his, sliding it up over the soft mound he'd been aching to touch.

 _Seven save him_ —Jon came undone, his hand closing over the fullness of her breast. A doomed man damned to the darkest corners of hell—but dammit, he was only human, and when they asked him if it was worth it while his soul burned for an eternity, he'd tell them _it was_.

His whole body shuddered as white-hot desire shot through him like a bolt of lightning. It curled his toes, as he flicked his thumb over the hardened peak of her nipple, his heart slamming against his ribs.

And when Sansa moaned again, _all was lost_ … Jon was a drowning man, suffocating in a sweet sea of flames that smelled distinctly of the summer breeze and felt like heaven on earth beneath his fingertips. His hips were not his own as they ground against her backside with a rough urgency that was frightening, the evidence of his desire not to be denied, as an animalistic growl clawed its way up his throat.

"Jon!" Sansa cried out as, wrapping the blanket around her like a shield, she leapt from the bed with a quickness he didn't understand. He lay there panting like a dog, his erection shamefully waving between them in his constricting breeches, like the blasted Jolly Roger!

Her chest heaving, her auburn mane tousled from sleep, she pinned him to the mattress with piercing blue eyes. "Wha—just what do you think you are doing?"

 _What?_ Jon sat up, the headache he'd anticipated already pounding in his temples the minute he lifted his head.

"Sansa, I don't understand?" Thoroughly perplexed, he raked a hand through his disheveled hair, his stomach heavy like he'd just ingested a bag of rocks. She'd been all moans and gyrating hips just mere seconds ago, and unless his bout of celibacy at sea had robbed him of the ability to read a woman, he was _not_ alone in his desire.

"You don't understand?" Her voice shook as she admonished him. "I asked you to _stay_ with me, not take whatever liberties you pleased whilst I slept!"

 _What?_ Jon rolled from the bed to stand before her, a ball of nerves caught between guilt, confusion and remorse.

"Sansa, you pushed your hips into me, you placed my hand on your—on your…" He fumbled over the word, his cheeks pinking like a blushing maid while his tongue twisted itself in knots. Thoroughly flustered, he hand waved a clumsy circle in the air, directed at her chest. " _You know_ —those things!" he finally choked out.

Sansa's jaw dropped, her sharp intake of breath audible as her eyes widened large as saucers. "I did no such thing!"

But she had done _precisely_ that. Jon knew that he very well may be—okay, _was_ —that he was depraved, but he certainly wasn't insane! Just fucking dense, apparently. How had he misread the situation so badly? All he wanted to do was protect her, make her feel safe, and yet he'd somehow managed to become exactly the type of man she'd been running from all along.

At a loss for words, he wrapped what dignity he had left— _if any_ —round his wounded pride, and stomped towards his trunk, flipping it open and grabbing the first clean shirt he could find. Sansa watched him intently, her blue eyes burning a hole in his back as he turned to shrug it on and clumsily push his feet into his boots. He left the shirt untucked—a sad attempt to hide the evidence of his lust, still standing uncomfortably at attention.

He knew he should say _something_ as he gathered up his scabbard and stalked towards the door, but the apology died on his tongue, swallowed by his shame and embarrassment. Sansa stood by silently, flushed cheeks and mussed hair—looking more lovely than ever, even as her eyes shot daggers at him as he exited the cabin posthaste.

If he didn't already think he looked a bloody mess, the stares of his crew confirmed it, as he pulled the door closed behind him. Davos was already making his way across the deck towards him, and Jon knew he could count on his Quartermaster to say what the others only dared to think. He braced himself for the onslaught, finally able to tuck his shirt into his breeches.

"Gods, but you look a bloody mess, Jon! Did you sleep at all?" He uttered the words quietly, as if that lessened their impact.

"I'm fine," Jon snapped, already making his way towards the helm as he fastened his scabbard at his hip. "Have Gendry bring some food to my cabin so the lady can break her fast."

"And will you be joining her?"

"Step to! Hoist the sails!" Jon shouted at the crew, a litany of _aye, Captain's_ following as the men scurried to carry out his orders. He pushed his hands through his tousled curls and reached for the helm.

Present circumstances as they were, it was probably best that he stay clear of Sansa Stark for the duration of the trip.

"I will not," he informed Davos, his tone crisp.

* * *

 **YOUR HANDY PIRATE GLOSSARY FOR THE CHAPTER:**

 ** _Crack Jenny's Teacup_ : **To spend the night in a house of ill-repute (brothel, whorehouse, etc.)

 _ **Loaded To The Gunwall:**_ To be drunk.

 _ **Step To:**_ A command to move quickly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 - And The Arms Of The Ocean Are Carrying Me**

 _And the arms of the ocean are carrying me_

And all this devotion was rushing out of me

And the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me

But the arms of the ocean delivered me…

— "Never Let Me Go," Florence and the Machine; Ceremonials

* * *

"Come in," Sansa called to the soft rap on the other side of the cabin door, as she momentarily looked up from the shirt she was mending.

"Apologies for disturbing you, m'lady." Gendry offered her a sheepish smile, as he always did, over the tray he carried. "Just bringing you an early supper."

Sansa eyed the pewter tray as he placed it on the table before her. One plate. One tankard. Dinner for one… again.

 _Damn him._

It had been days since she'd last lain eyes upon Jon—days since he'd stormed from the cabin, leaving her to her own devices with only her stubborn pride to keep her company.

 _Well fine, then._

Sansa bit her lip in frustration, shoving the needle through the fabric with more force than was necessary, and carelessly pricked her unsuspecting finger. _"Oh!"_

"Are you alright, m'lady?" Gendry asked after her yelp of surprise. He watched with concern as she sucked the wounded appendage into her mouth to catch the blood before it dropped to stain Jon's shirt.

"I'm fine." Sansa plucked her finger from between her lips and offered him a reassuring smile. Quickly, she set her sewing aside to grasp at his hand before he could run off as swiftly as he always did.

"Tell me, Gendry, where does your captain sup if not here in his quarters?" _With me,_ she fought the urge to add.

"In the galley, m'lady, with the crew, as he did before your arrival."

"Does he sleep and dress there now, too?" Sansa snapped without thinking, her temper getting the best of her after being isolated for so long.

She clamped her mouth shut, surprised at her outburst as was Gendry, which was evident by his sharp intake of breath.

"Do you need anything else, m'lady? Oil for the lamps? Some more wine, perhaps?" He swallowed and cast a nervous glance at the cabin door, and Sansa knew as soon as she relinquished her hold on him, he'd sprint from her presence like a frightened animal.

 _Very well._

"Yes." Sansa offered him her politest of smiles, and shoved her tray away with her free hand. It wasn't _him_ she was angry with, after all. "Please inform your captain that I too will take my meals in the galley, henceforth."

"Yes, m'lady." Gendry nodded curtly as Sansa released her grip and, as expected, scooped up her tray and stole for the door like his very life was dependent upon it.

His hasty departure was exchanged with a rush of warm air, which Sansa inhaled deeply, tasting the salt of the sea on her tongue. Her lungs ached for some fresh air; her skin, for the warm kiss of the sun that wasn't filtered by the thick panes of colored glass that adorned the windows at the back of Jon's cabin.

She knew she was being terribly insufferable—and perhaps even a bit childish—but Sansa was beginning to feel like a prisoner again. It was as if she had traded her gilded cage in the Red Keep for this floating wooden box. In King's Landing, she had no one once Margaery had taken her leave; here, Jon—her own flesh and blood—was but a stone's throw away, and yet it felt as if the width of entire oceans separated them.

That simply would not do. Not when he was all she had left in the world presently. And _certainly_ not if she had anything to say about it. Although, just what exactly she would say… Well, Sansa hadn't quite figured that part out yet.

She reached for her sewing again, a blush creeping to warm her skin as the memory of several mornings ago rushed to the forefront of her mind. She thought about it more than she cared to admit—in fact, she thought of little else.

Of the feel of him pressed tightly against her, his strong arms wrapped around her, holding her. Safe and warm. _Protected._ It had been a luxury long forgotten while at the mercy of the Lannisters.

And, Seven save her, but Sansa had been loathe to relinquish the feeling—chasing his comforting warmth and security even as he pulled away from her—even as she _knew_ they had crossed some sort of invisible line, and it was wrong.

 _And yet…_

Dancing in that state between her dreams and wakefulness, it had not felt wrong at all. Jon's breath hot in her hair and against her ear, the warm scrape of his calloused palm as it skimmed across her bare skin… How strangely she had behaved, as a new, raw hunger stoked her insides and her body hummed beneath his touch—not quite knowing what it was that she wanted, only that she wanted _more._

The sound of her name on his lips— _her name, no one else's_ —had only served to exacerbate the conflicting feelings unfurling and warring deep within her, and the sudden and frightening inability to rein in her own traitorous body. Truly, her anger with Jon had been born of her own shame— _hers, and no one else's_ —for she had indeed placed his hand upon her breast, despite her denial.

And now his avoidance, her isolation… It was all too much to bear.

Sansa released a shuddering breath, grateful for the knock at the cabin door that startled her from her thoughts. She dropped her forgotten sewing onto the tabletop once more, to quickly smooth her hands down the front of Jon's borrowed shirt and comb her fingers through the tangles in her hair.

Perhaps she should have been more concerned with her rumpled appearance instead of losing herself in her thoughts again, she mused, as Sansa cleared her throat and steeled herself for Jon's ire—however deserved.

"Come in." Her voice cracked with the nervousness suddenly rolling riotously within her empty stomach.

The door creaked open slowly, and Sansa held her breath. Her heart promptly sunk to her belly with the heavy weight of disappointment as Gendry made a cautious re-entry. Alone, and with the same pewter tray in hand.

"M'lady." He swallowed convulsively as he laid the tray down before her.

"The captain sends his regards and—" Gendry spoke slowly, as if he mulled over his words before permitting them to touch her ears, and Sansa immediately knew they were not Jon's cordially spoken refusal, but Gendry's careful spin "—with deep regret, he must insist the lady partake her meals within the safety of his cabin for the time being."

 _Damn him, indeed._

Sansa was at a loss for words, her hand clutched at her abdomen to ease the unsettling disappointment that was quickly turning to hurt and regret—thick and suffocating and—

Anger.

Like tinder to a dying fire, it roared to life—bursting forth from somewhere deep within, refusing to be contained. She was tired of burying it, of shoving it down, of being the proper, genteel lady who simply accepted her lot with lowered lashes and meek acquiesces.

 _No more._

White-hot and blinding, it pulsed in her veins and pounded in her ears, drowning out the sound of Gendry's voice as Sansa stood abruptly and stomped from the cabin. Out the door and onto the quarterdeck, it drove her forward— _thud-thud-thudding_ in time with her rampant heartbeat as she scanned the faces of the men who paused from their tasks to regard her with glances both curious and wary.

Sansa paid them no mind, spreading her arms out to steady herself as the deck planks beneath her bare feet seemed to sway with the motion of the surrounding sea. There was but one man she sought, and he was not among the faces staring back at her.

"M'lady, please—" Gendry's soft plea went unanswered, his gently restraining hand upon her shoulder easily shaken off, as Sansa took a step forward, then another, searching…

It was his voice she heard—the rich timbre of his northern accent, carrying from the deck above on the favorable winds—still soothing somehow, even as it barked orders at his crew. And even while she still seethed with anger at him.

Sansa whirled at the sound of it, her hair whipping about as she turned her face into the choppy wind. Her gait clumsy with the rocking of the ship, but determined in her purpose, she ascended the steps to the upper deck, not breaking stride until she stood before him at the ship's helm.

"Is something wrong with your dinner, Lady Stark?" Jon asked, infuriatingly polite, despite the muscle ticking in his jaw.

Davos shifted uncomfortably beside him and cleared his throat. He wasn't the only one who was eyeing the spectacle unfolding; the crew watched too, some of them with the good sense to at least keep their heads lowered in an effort to be less conspicuous.

Mistaking her silence for affirmation, Jon continued, "Then if there isn't a problem, perhaps you'd be so kind as to allow Gendry to escort you back to your allotted quarters?"

His tone remained cool, but his grey eyes smoldered with an intensity that caused Sansa to shiver and pull his commandeered shirt more tightly against her. He nodded to Gendry, who reached for her.

"I will not," she stammered, taking a half-step sideways to avoid Gendry's grasp.

She clenched the worn linen more securely in her fists, as Jon continued to rake his heated gaze unabashedly along the planes of her body. He meant to disarm her—unsettle and rattle her with his cool aloofness, and send her skittering away like some silly cowed female. She would _not_ give him the satisfaction.

"I wish to speak with you," Sansa kept her tone crisp as she feigned bravado that she didn't truly feel, boldly rejecting his dismissal, her blue eyes shooting invisible daggers across the space that separated them.

"This is neither the appropriate time or place for a discussion, Lady Stark," Jon shot back, his eyes burning a path from the top of her fiery red hair to the tips of her bare toes, yet again. "Nor are you dressed properly for such company."

Sansa's cheeks began to burn. Whether her reaction was born from the truth of his statement, or the way his heated stare seemed to caress her flesh through the clothing she wore, she could not be certain.

"And pray tell, when will it be an appropriate time, ser? Since you're obviously ashamed of your licentious behavior, and seem intent on avoiding me for the duration of our trip." Sansa hurled the accusation at him with the precision of a well-honed blade, her tongue just as sharp.

A collection of gasps rang out through the crowd, a blatantly painful reminder that they were not alone, and that Sansa had just dared to insult him—and his character—in the presence of his entire crew.

"That's a rather presumptuous statement." Jon's tone dropped dangerously low, his grip tightening on the helm.

"When left to one's own devices, one can only be presumptuous, _Captain._ " His title dripped with disdain from her lips as Sansa raised her chin defiantly, for she could not afford to back down now. "I will not be confined to your cabin like a prisoner."

"You are not a prisoner," Jon growled, the muscle in his jaw ticking wildly now, his knuckles white upon the helm. "You do not have the proper attire to be traipsing around on deck, _Lady Stark,_ and furthermore, this conversation is over."

Before his words had even begun to register in her mind, Jon had released the helm and was stalking towards her with the smooth predatory gait of a wolf—beautiful and dangerous. His grey eyes shone with an intensity that both frightened and mesmerized her, pinning her in place when every instinct she possessed screamed at her to flee.

But of course, she did not flee. Her feet remained rooted to the deck, her legs heavy and leaden as Jon bore down upon her, a snarl curling on his lips. Sansa clutched more tightly at the shirt she wore, her heart stuttering wildly in her chest as it slammed against her ribs so loudly that it echoed in her ears.

"P-please," she stammered when he stood but a breath apart from her—so close she could almost taste the ire radiating off of him in waves, bitter on her tongue.

"The time for pleasantries has long expired, my lady," Jon snapped, his hands clasping her upper arms in a grip that was surprisingly gentle, despite his harsh, clipped tones.

On instinct, Sansa's hand—a useless deterrent—came up, delicate palm splayed flat against the breadth of his chest where his heart skipped as wildly as her own. Beneath her fingertips, he was hot to the touch, scorching her skin through the crisp linen of his shirt, loosely laced and gaping.

She sucked in a sharp breath and then the world tilted on its axis. One minute she was soaring; the next, falling, plummeting downwards. Sansa shrieked as the blood rushed to her head and the air escaped her lungs in an audible _whoosh,_ as Jon swept her up and deposited her over his shoulder—as if she weighed nothing more than a sack of grain.

"I advise you not to squirm," he threatened, adjusting her more comfortably in his grasp, his arm splayed over the backs of her thighs in a manner that could only be described as intimate.

Sansa was mortified, dangling like a worm on a hook, her backside in the air for all of the crew to openly gawk at. Through the ringing in her ears, she swore she could hear their snickering. She squeezed her eyes shut as Jon stomped down the stairs to the quarterdeck. It was all she could do to contain the tears of rage and embarrassment that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

With an _oomph,_ Jon shoved through the door to his cabin, kicking it closed with the toe of his boot. It slammed with a force that rattled the stained glass windows in their panes as he set Sansa gently on her feet. He at least had the decency to hold her steady, until she collected her bearings and found her footing.

She had expected smug satisfaction, a bit of gloating perhaps, _anything_ but the haunted expression Jon wore now. It shook her deeply, stealing what little Sansa had left in her lungs until she felt like she was gasping for air, her chest heaving with exertion from the simple task of just breathing.

"How _dare—_ "

Her words were cut short, swallowed up as Jon's mouth suddenly descended upon hers without warning. His lips were soft—a stark contrast to the urgent pressure of his mouth as his hands slipped up to cradle her face, holding her still for his unexpected, passionate assault.

Sansa gasped, and Jon took full advantage, his tongue sweeping between her lips to find and curl possessively around her own—teasing, stroking. He tasted of rum, tangy and forbidden and bold, _so bold…_ No man had ever kissed her like this before—not even her betrothed.

He took a half-step closer, the tips of his boots brushing against her bare toes, and Sansa let gravity take her, sinking heavily against him. Her hands curled in the fabric of his shirt to keep herself upright, bunching the material between her fingers. Jon had thrown down the gauntlet—daring her to cross that invisible line with him once more and, _once more,_ she was helpless to stop her body's inevitable sway towards betrayal.

There was a fluttering deep within her belly—a delicious, burgeoning warmth that grew in intensity with each stroke of Jon's tongue, each whimper, each muffled groan she caught in her mouth. Sansa felt empowered and helpless all at once—a whirlwind of new and confusing sensations and emotions—her heart and head and body, all waging a war for control, as Jon drank from her lips with the desperation of a starving man who may never know salvation without her.

It clenched painfully at her heart—heavy and overwhelming, and suddenly Sansa was no longer able to hold back her tears. They slipped from her eyes in warm torrents, wetting Jon's hands as they slid down her cheeks.

And then, slowly—as if time had suddenly ceased in the midst of the storm that had been ignited by his mouth on hers—Jon pulled back, his lips catching just once more upon hers, as though he couldn't bear to break away from her completely.

His gaze was dark, heavy-lidded but steady, as it tracked the progression of her tears. "Cry foul my sweet Sansa—" Jon whispered in the space between them, his thumbs sweeping up to gently brush the moisture from her eyes "—if I've wounded anything more than your pride, forgive me what you can."

Unable to find her voice, Sansa could only stare up at Jon as his grey eyes bore into hers—earnest and honest. Whatever spark of madness they'd formerly possessed, already ebbing like the tide clambering over the rocks on its way back out to sea.

A heavy sigh escaped him. It crackled in the tense silence as Jon removed his hands from her face and took a clumsy step backwards. It was just one step, but it felt like a chasm had suddenly opened up between them, leaving Sansa feeling bereft, though her reasoning escaped her.

And her heart felt heavier still, twisting painfully within her breast when Jon widened the chasm further, as he turned and reached for the door. He paused briefly there, hand hovering just so over the latch, his broad shoulders slumping as if in defeat, and Sansa hoped that he might say something— _anything_ —to squelch the weight suddenly bearing down upon her.

She was offered no such reprieve. Jon's mouth—his beautiful, soft mouth remained closed, set in the grimmest of lines—when he turned and offered her a solemn nod. His eyes were a mirrored image of her own confusion as they locked upon her, before he turned again and slipped out, _away,_ onto the quarterdeck.

Her face flushed and still damp with tears, Sansa stared helplessly at the closed door. She was so conflicted—caught between wanting to call him back, or to scream so loudly she'd bring the walls of the cabin tumbling down around her.

 _Either way was bound to get his attention._

Instead, she expelled a shaky breath and drifted her fingertips over her lips, still swollen from Jon's rough kiss. Fearing her legs would finally give out on her, she sunk down into the chair by her now-cold dinner tray.

She was right back where she'd started.


End file.
